Phaedrus, Lysis, and Protagoras. A new literal translation mainly from the text of Bekker

10

Professor W.J. Alexander

"

THE PHAEDRUS,
LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS

OF

PLATO

A NEW AND LITERAL TRANSLATION

MAINLY FROM THE TEXT OF BEKKER
BY J. WRIGHT, M.A.

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

ILontion
MACMILLAN AND CO.

AND NEW YORK
1888

All rig Jits reserved

6

CONTENTS

PAGE

PlI^DRUS . . l

LYSIS ... U 5

PROTAGORAS l6 3

PH JiDRUS

SUMMARY OF THE PH^DRUS

As Socrates was prowling after his manner about the 227
streets of Athens in search of self-knowledge, he met a
gay young acquaintance of his, named Phaedrus, who
told him that he was just come from the Rhetorician
Lysias, and was going to refresh himself with a walk
outside the walls. Socrates joins him, as he feels sure
that Lysias has been regaling Phcedrus with one of his
speeches, and that Phnedrus has got it by heart ; and
having himself, as he confesses, a weakness for speeches,
he would like above all things to hear it. Phaedrus is
somewhat coy, though evidently longing to disburden
himself of his well -conned sentences. Socrates, how
ever, soon discovers that Phaedrus has got a copy of
the speech itself beneath his cloak ; and would naturally
rather hear the actual words of the great orator than
his young friend s faltering reminiscences. So they
turn aside from the public road to look for a pleasant
place in which Phoedrus may read the speech.

The Ilissus is flowing hard by ; and they walk along 229
its shallow bed with their feet in the water towards a
lofty plane-tree which they see before them. Here,
under the shade of its spreading boughs, they find a
delicious slope of grass, on which Socrates luxuriously
stretches himself, thoroughly enjoying the summer scents
and summer sounds which play around him ; while
Phcedrus draws forth his treasured document and be
gins to read.

It is but a sorry production, poor in style and low in 231
its moral tone, and surely no fair representation of

4 PH&DRUS

Lysias s ordinary speeches. It purports to be addressed
to a beautiful youth by a suitor, who owns that he is
not in love, but who maintains that on this very account
he ought to be preferred to one who is, because lovers
are such unreasonable, disagreeable, suspicious, and
altogether objectionable beings.

234 When Phaedrus has finished the speech, he bursts in
to raptures over it, asserting that no one in Greece
could have written a better. To this Socrates demurs.
He has not paid much attention, he says, to the sub
ject-matter, but he does not admire the style and
mode of treatment. He finds in it a good deal of tau
tology, juvenile display, and lack of invention. Indeed,
he fancies that he might even make as good a speech
himself on the same subject. At this hint of course
Phaedrus, the speech-lover, catches eagerly. Socrates
coquets after his manner, and in imitation of his
young friend s previous coyness ; but is at last forced to
comply.

237 He begins by applying to the subject his familiar
dialectic method. To escape the conceit of knowledge
without the reality he would define what love really is. But
he has not gone far in this somewhat prosaic vein, when
he professes to feel within himself a poetic impulse,
which he can only attribute to the inspiration of the
deity who haunts the spot. He proceeds however
with his speech, and paints vividly the horrible results
which flow from the companionship of an impassioned
lover. But instead of going on to show the advantages
offered by the suitor who does not love, he feels that in
attempting to praise he will be carried beyond himself
by the ecstatic influence to which he has just referred ;
and therefore, with a farewell to Phaedrus, he brings his
speech abruptly to a close, and prepares to return home.
Thus ends his First Discourse on Love.

242 But Phaedrus will not hear of his going ; and Socrates
himself is disposed to stay, for he hears his inward
monitor forbidding him to depart till he has made
atonement. And then he becomes conscious of his sin.
In the speech which he has just uttered, by speaking of love
as an unholy thing, he has blasphemed Eros, the god

PH&DRUS 5

of Love, the son of Aphrodite. And he cannot depart
till he has purified himself from his sin. And he will
do so before evil come upon him. The poet Stesichorus
maligned Helen in his poem, and lost his sight. He
composed a palinode, showing her to be innocent as
beautiful ; and his sight was restored to him. So he
too will compose a palinode by way of atonement. He
will deliver a panegyric on Love.

Now follows the Second Discourse on Love, put in- 244
deed into the mouth of Socrates, but embodying Plato s
own psychological ideas. It is a mythic hymn in hon
our of Eros, of surpassing beauty as a literary composi
tion, and valuable also for its philosophic merit. Love
is a condition of the soul. The nature of the soul is
therefore investigated ; and the speaker soars aloft be
yond the heavenly vault to the bright regions where
pure existences dwell. There it is given to the soul to
be feasted on pure beauty ; and in proportion as it has
been fed and nourished by that heavenly pasture is it
enabled, during its earthly sojourn, duly to appreciate
beautiful objects here. 1 he soul, that has fed richly
there, enslaves here that portion of itself wherein vice
is contained, and liberates that wherein virtue dwells.
So walking hand in hand with the object of its love it
leads on earth a bright and blessed life, looking forward
to a brighter life beyond, which they two will live to
gether for their love s sake. Thus does Socrates in
poetic strain pay to Eros a due recantation for the im
piety of his former discourse.

Phcedrus of course is enchanted with the speech. He 257
thinks that the one composed by Lysias makes but a
poor figure beside it ; and even fears that Lysias will
be so put out of conceit with his own work, that he
will not compose any more, especially as he has been
somewhat disparaged of late by public men as a mere
speech-writer. But Socrates has no fear of the kind.
Public men, he says, only sneer at speeches, because they
cannot always make good ones. Whether in proposing
bills or enacting laws they make speeches. The only
question is, Are the speeches good or bad ? And so we
come to the point of our whole argument. In what

6 PH&DRUS

does a good discourse, whether spoken or written, con
sist? In other words, What is Rhetoric? Is it an
inartistic knack, or a systematic method ?

261 Rhetoric, Socrates answers, is the art of winning men s
souls by means of words : not merely in public harangue,
as is commonly thought, but in talk of all kind, however
familiar. And its method is, to make things appear
like to other things in all cases where such likening is
possible ; and to drag to the light all such attempts in
one s adversary, however dexterously concealed. Now
there are some things between which there is such little
likeness, that this process is difficult ; others again,
between which the likeness is so great, that this process
is comparatively easy : and this is the proper field of
Rhetoric. The accomplished speaker therefore should
know thoroughly the real nature of things, if he is to
liken them skilfully with other things : that is, he must
know the true, and not, as is commonly thought, the
semblance of the true.

262 Socrates now proceeds to bring forward the three
speeches which have just been delivered as illustrations
of his definition of Rhetoric. The speech of Lysias he
soon dismisses. It gives no definition of Love. It does
not even show whether Love belongs to that class of
things between which there is little likeness, and which
therefore do not well admit of discussion : or to that
class of things, between which the likeness is consider
able, on which therefore there may well be difference of
opinion and discussion, and in which consequently
rhetorical skill is most efficacious, and a definition is
especially necessary. He further points out that Lysias s
arguments are blurted out without any method ; there
being no apparent reason why one should come before
the other. But in his own two speeches, he submits,
there is method ; and whatever merit they may possess
is owing to this. And the method by which one should
proceed is twofold, Combination and Division. A
speaker, in considering a thing, should take a com
prehensive view of all scattered particulars connected
with it, and should combine them into a general notion,
to be expressed in words by a Definition. This process

PHsEDRUS 7

he had followed in his first speech by giving a definition
of Love. Again, the speaker should divide a general
notion into its constituent parts, not cutting it up at
random like a bungling carver, but dissecting it at 1
joints into its particular species. Thus he had taken
Madness, and divided it into Divine and Human. 1 he
latter he had discussed in his first speech. In his
second he had taken Divine Madness, and had further
divided it into four subordinate species : of which the
Amatory that is, the Madness or Inspiration proceed
ing from Eros and Aphrodite had been the subject of
his second speech. And the speaker, he adds, who
adopts these two courses is in his opinion a Dialectician.

True, breaks in Phaedrus, but not a master of 260
Rhetoric. Yes, rejoins Socrates, this is true Rhetoric.
Your professors of Rhetoric teach you a number of tricks
-exordium, narration, proof, refutation, appeals, and
the like. But these are mere refinements, preliminary
accomplishments, of Rhetoric, not Rhetoric itself. To
produce vomitings and purgings does not make a
physician. The physician must first know the nature
of the drug, and the constitution of the patient. Just
in the same way then that the physician has to do with
the body ; with the human body generally, and with the
body of his particular patient : so the rhetorician has to do
with the mind ; with the human mind generally, and with
the particular mind of the person or persons whom hi
is addressing. He must therefore thoroughly know the
human mind, both as a whole, and in its varieties. He
must know the exact truth of the thing about which he
is speaking, that he may be able easily to trace the
various shades of its likeness to other things. Then,
with this twofold knowledge as his basis, he must apply
the thing to the mind by means of words ; discerning
at once with the rapid tact of practice what likeness o
the thing to apply to what variety of mind ; and using,
if you will, all the subordinate artifices of your pro
fessor s lecture -room, wherewith to flavour and adapt
his discourse. Thus and thus only will he become a
real master of Rhetoric. The process will be long and
laborious : but the wise man will bestow the labour

8 PH^EDR OS-

required, not with a view of persuading men, but for
the sake of pleasing the gods.

274 So much, continues Socrates, for the scientific and
unscientific treatment of a discourse. Of course what I
have said may apply in a measure to the written as well
as the spoken word. But is the written word really
susceptible of scientific treatment? is it capable of
producing real and permanent effect? The Egyptian
god Thamus, whom the Greeks call Ammon, did not
think so. Writing was brought to him for his approval
by its complacent inventor. But he thought that it
would do harm, rather than good, to the memory ; that
it would give a show of knowledge without the reality.
And I quite agree with him. Writings seem to me like
paintings. If you ask them questions, they cannot
answer you. If you attack them, they cannot retaliate.
They cannot adapt themselves to individual minds. At
all times, and to all persons, they present the same cold
immovable face. They may give momentary pleasure ;
they may remind a man of something which he knew
before. But they cannot really teach, because they
cannot answer questions, and supply what is wanting in
the mind of the reader. And, instead of aiding, they
weaken the memory, because they tempt it to rely on
foreign support. How different from the spoken word,
of which the written word is but the phantom or
shadow. The spoken word, as we have shown, is
possessed both of life and love. It can bear seed, and
springing up in other minds produce a noble progeny,
ever undecaying, and giving happiness, so far as happi
ness is possible, to man.

278 Socrates concludes his remarks with a few words in
praise of the orator Isocrates, whom he considers to be
endowed with a nobler nature than Lysias : and after a
prayer to the deities of the spot returns with his young
friend to Athens.

PH/EDRUS

SOCRATES PH^DRUS

Soc. Whence come you, friend Phaedrus, and 227
whither are you bound ?

Ph. I come from Lysias, the son of Cepha-
lus ; and I am going for a walk outside the
walls, as I have been sitting with him a long
time, in fact ever since daybreak. And it is
by the advice, Socrates, of our common friend
Acumenus, that I take my walks in the open
roads ; for he tells me they are more refresh
ing than the covered promenades.

Soc: And he s right there, my good friend.
So Lysias, it appears, was in the city.

Ph. Yes, staying with Epicrates at the
Morychian mansion yonder, close by the
Olympian.

Soc. Well, how did you pass your time
there ? though I can hardly doubt that Lysias
regaled you with his speeches.

Ph. You shall hear, if you are not too much
engaged to join me in my walk.

Soc. Engaged, indeed ? don t you believe
that in the words of Pindar I would count it

io PH&DRUS

a matter far above all engagement to hear
what passed between you and Lysias ?

Ph. Come on then.

Soc. If you will begin your tale.

Ph. I will ; and I can assure you, Socrates,
you will find it very much in your way. For
the speech which engaged our attention was in
a certain fashion of an amatory character ; that
is to say, Lysias introduced one of our beauti
ful boys as being courted, but not by a lover ;
in fact, this is the very point on which he has
displayed his ingenuity, as he maintains that
favour ought to be shown to one who is not in
love, rather than to one who is.

Soc. What a generous man ! I wish he
would maintain that poverty has a better claim
than wealth, and age than youth ; and in short,
that the preference ought to be given to all the
other properties that belong to myself in com
mon with the bulk of mankind. In that case
his speeches would indeed be delightful, and a
public boon. But whether he does so or not,
I have conceived such a desire to hear what he
says, that even if you extend your walk to
Megara, and, as Herodicus prescribes, go close
up to the wall and then turn back again, you
will not shake me off, I can promise you.
228 Ph. What are you talking about, my good
friend Socrates ? It took Lysias, the cleverest
writer of the day, a long while to compose this
speech at his leisure ; and do you imagine that
a novice like myself could repeat it from
memory without doing injustice to the author ?

PH&DRUS ii

No, that I am very sure I could not ; and yet
I would sooner be able to do so than come into
the possession of a large sum of money.

Soc. My good friend Phaedrus, if I do not
know Phaedrus, I do not know myself any
longer. But neither the one nor the other is
the case ; I do know Phaedrus ; I know full
well that on hearing Lysias read the speech, he
was not content with hearing it once only, but
kept urging him to repeat it again and again ;
and Lysias was quite as eager to comply.
Phaedrus however was not satisfied even with
this, but at last took the book from the other s
hands, and looked over again the parts he
especially fancied. And being wearied with
sitting all the morning thus engaged, he set
out for a walk, though not, I fully believe, till
he had learnt the entire speech by heart, un
less it was a very long one. And he was going
outside the walls to con it over by himself.
But on his way he met with a man who is
afflicted with a weakness for listening to
speeches, and when he saw him he was
charmed (oh so charmed) at the sight, for
says he, I shall now have a friend to share
in my raptures. So he requested his friend
to join him in his walk. When however this
lover of speeches asked him to commence, he
began to be coy, as though disinclined, albeit
determined I am sure, if he could get no willing
hearer, to speak out at last even to unwilling ears.
Do you therefore, Phaedrus, request him to do at
once what at all events he is sure to do presently.

12 PHALDRUS

Ph. My wisest plan, there seems little doubt,
is to repeat the speech as well as I am able ;
for I believe you have made up your mind on
no account to let me go, till I have given it
you in some way or other.

Soc. You have defined my intentions to a nicety.

Ph. Well then I ll do my best, though really,
Socrates, I can assure you that I have not
learnt the words by heart ; but if you are con
tent with a general view of the points of dif
ference, as Lysias laid them down, between the
claims of the impassioned and unimpassioned
suitor, I am ready to go through them in order
under their several heads, beginning where he
began.

Soc. Thank you, my obliging friend ; not
till you have shown me though, what it is you
have got there in your left hand beneath your
cloak, as I have a shrewd suspicion that it is
the speech itself. If so, I must beg you to
understand that, fond as I am of you, I have
yet no intention at all of lending myself for you
to practise upon, while Lysias is also present.
So let us see what you have got.
229 ph. Enough, Socrates, I confess ; you have
dashed down the hope I entertained of prac
tising my memory on you. But where would
you like us to sit down and read the speech ?

Soc. Let us turn aside here, and go down
by the Ilissus, and then wherever we find a
spot to our taste we will sit down and rest.

Ph. How lucky that I happened to come
out without my shoes and you, Socrates, we

PH&DRUS 13

know never wear them. Our easiest plan then
is to walk along the streamlet with our feet in
the water, and we shall find it by no means
disagreeable, considering the season of the
year, and the hour of the day.

Soc. Come on then, and keep at the same
time a look-out for a seat.

Ph. Do you see that towering plane-tree
yonder ?

Soc. Of course I do.

Ph. Well, there we shall find shade and a
gentle breeze, and grass enough for a seat, or
if we prefer it, for a bed.

Soc. Let us walk towards it.
Ph. Tell me, Socrates, was it not from some
where hereabouts on the Ilissus that Boreas is
said to have carried off Orithyia ?
Soc. So the tale goes.

Ph. Must it not have been from this very
spot ? So beautiful is the water here, so clear
and transparent, and just such as one can fancy
maidens loving to play by.

Soc. No, not here, but about a quarter of a
mile lower down, just where we cross over to the
temple of the Huntress. And if I am not mis
taken, there is an altar on the spot to Boreas.

Ph. I have never noticed it. But tell me
honestly, Socrates, do you believe this tale of
mythology to be true ?

Soc. Why, I should do nothing strangely
out of the way if I were to refuse it credit, as
the learned do ; and go on in their rational
ising method to say that as the girl was playing

14 PHALDRUS

with Pharmacsea she was blown over the ad
joining cliffs by a blast of the wind Boreas ;
and that, having met with her death in this
manner, she was fabled to have been carried
off by the god Boreas either from this place,
or if you like from Mars s hill, which, accord
ing to another account, was the scene of her
adventure. But for my part, Phaedrus, though
I consider such explanations sufficiently pretty,
yet I esteem them the peculiar province of a
very subtle, painstaking, and by no means par
ticularly enviable person ; if for no other reason
than that he will be called upon, as soon as he
has finished this subject, to set us right as to
the form of the Hippocentaurs, and again as to
that of the Chimaera, and then he will have
pouring in upon him a like crowd of Gorgons
and Pegasuses, and such a wondrous host of
portentous and impossible creations, that if he
were to disbelieve them all, and, with a kind
of vulgar acuteness, apply to each successively
the test of probability, he would require no
small amount of time and labour for the task.
But I have no leisure for such studies and
the reason, my friend, is this : I cannot as yet
230 obey the Delphic inscription, which bids me
know myself ; and it seems to me ridiculous
for one who is still destitute of this knowledge
to busy himself with matters which in no wise
concern him. I therefore leave these subjects
alone, and acquiescing in the received opinion
regarding them I devote myself, as I just now
said, to the study, not of fables, but of my own

PH^DRUS 15

self, that I may see whether I am really a more
complicated and a more furious monster than
Typhon, or a creature of a gentler and a simpler
sort, the born heir of a divine and tranquil
nature. But by the bye, Phaedrus, was not this
the tree to which you were leading me ?
Ph. The very one.

Soc. Well, really, this is a glorious resting-
place. For the plane-tree I find is thick and
spreading, as well as tall, and the size and
shadiness of the agnus castus here is very
beautiful, and being at the height of its flower
it must render our retreat most fragrant. How
delicious too is this spring trickling under the
plane-tree, and how cold its water, to judge by
the foot ! It would seem from these images and
votive offerings that the place is sacred to some
nymphs and river-god. Again, how lovely and
enjoyable above measure is the airiness of the
spot ! summer-like and clear there rings an
answer to the choir of the cicalas. But the
most charming thing of all is this abundant
grass, with its gentle slope just made for the
head to fall back on luxuriously. Really,
Phaedrus, you make a most admirable guide.

Ph. And you, Socrates, are a most un
accountable being. In fact, as you say, you
are just like a stranger who is being shown
the beauties of the place, and not like a native
of the country ; the consequence this of your
never leaving the city either to cross the
frontier, or even, I do believe, for so much as
a walk outside the walls.

1 6 PH&DRUS

Soc. You must bear with me, dear Phaedrus
I am so fond of learning. Now trees, you
know, and fields won t teach me anything, but
men in the city will. You, however, would
appear to have discovered the charm that can
entice me out. For as shepherds draw after
them their hungry flocks by shaking branches
or grain up and down before their eyes, so could
you, I believe, make me follow you, not only all
round Attica, but also wherever else you might
wish to lead, by simply holding out to me a
written speech as a bait. And since we have
reached this spot on the present occasion, I
cannot do better than lay me down to listen,
and do you choose that posture which you
think most convenient for reading in, and be
gin the speech.

Ph. Attend then :

231 With the state of my affairs you are
acquainted, and that I expect advantage to us
both from this arrangement you have heard.
Now I claim not to be disappointed in my suit
on the ground of my not belonging to the
number of your lovers. For they repent of
the benefits they have conferred the moment
that their desire ceases ; but for us, who never
love, there is no particular time at which we
may be expected to change our minds. For
it is not under the influence of a resistless
passion, but of our own free choice, that we do
you a kindness, consulting what our means
will allow, and what is best for our interests to
bestow. Again, lovers take into consideration

PSMDRUS 17

the derangement of their private affairs which
their love has occasioned, and the services
they have rendered their favourites ; and add
ing all the trouble they have taken to the reckon
ing, they conceive that by all this they have
long ago paid the return which is due to the
object of their affection. We, on the other
hand, are not able to pretend that we have
neglected our fortunes for love ; we cannot
take into account the labours we have endured,
nor plead the domestic quarrels which have
resulted from our devotion ; so that, as our
suit is divested of all such evils as these, we
have nothing left us but cheerfully to do what
ever we may think we shall please you by per
forming. Again, if it be a fair reason for set
ting store on a lover, that he professes greater
attachment for his favourite than for any one
else, and is ready both by word and deed to
incur the enmity of all the world beside, if he
can but gratify the object of his passion, it is
easy to perceive that, if his profession be a true
one, all of whom he may hereafter become
enamoured will be held of greater account than
his earlier love ; and it is clear that, if the for
mer wish it, he will not hesitate to do even
harm to the latter. And how can you think it
reasonable to lavish so costly a treasure on
one suffering under a fatal infliction, which no
man acquainted with its nature would even
attempt to avert ; when even the sufferer him
self owns that his mind is diseased, and that
he knows his own folly, but cannot control
c

1 8 PH&DRUS

himself? And when this man is restored to
his senses, how can he possibly judge that to
be well done about which he was so desirous
when in such a state of mind ? And further,
if you were to select the best from among your
lovers, your choice would be made from a
small number ; but if from the rest of the world
you were to select the man who is most suit
able to yourself, it would be made from a
large number ; so that there is far more reason
to expect that in the larger number exists the
one who is deserving of your attachment. If,
moreover, you stand in awe of public opinion,
and dread its reproaches on the affair being
discovered, it is but natural to suppose that
lovers, from an idea that others will deem them
as happy as they esteem themselves, will be so
elated as to talk of their intimacy, and with
ostentatious vanity give all men to know that
their labour has not been spent in vain ; but
that we on the other hand, who by never loving
never lose the dominion over ourselves, should
prefer what is truly advantageous to any cele
brity that is to be had in the world. Again,
men cannot help hearing and seeing how
lovers run after their favourites, and that too
with elaborate parade ; so that the mere fact
of their being seen talking together is sufficient
to give rise to suspicion ; whereas no one
would think of suspecting us for holding con
versation with you, as they know that people
cannot help talking with some one or other,
.either from friendship or for some other plea-

PHJZDRUS 19

sure. And further, if you have ever conceived
an alarm from remembering how difficult it is
for a friendship to last, and from the reflection
that in ordinary cases, when a quarrel has
taken place, the misfortune is felt equally on
both sides ; but that in love, as it is you who
have lavished what you prize most highly, so
it is you who will suffer most deeply by a rup
ture ; let me remind you that here again it is
those who are in love that you have most
reason to look upon with terror. For many
are the causes that irritate lovers, and they
think that everything is done to hurt and annoy
them. For which reason also they are anxious
to deter you from associating with the world,
fearing those who are possessed of substance,
lest they outbid them with money, and those
who are educated, lest they outshine them in
ability ; and so, whatever may be the advant
age a man possesses, they look with suspicion
on his influence in that particular. If then
they succeed in persuading you to abstain from
society, they leave you at last without a friend
in the world ; but if, with an eye to your own
interests, you adopt a different and wiser course,
a quarrel will be the inevitable result. By us,
on the other hand, who are not in love, but
owe to our merit the accomplishment of our
desires, no jealousy would be entertained for
those who cultivate your acquaintance, but
rather dislike for such as avoid it ; as we
should consider ourselves slighted by the
neglect of the latter, but benefited by the in-

20 PHMDRUS

timacy of the former. And such being our
feelings, surely you have reason to expect that
friendship rather than hatred will result from
our intercourse. And further, lovers frequently
conceive a desire for the person before they
have discovered the character or become
acquainted with the other circumstances of
their favourites, so that it is impossible for you
to tell whether their disposition for friendship
will outlast the continuance of their desire.
233 But when passion has never existed, when your
favours have been obtained by those who were
your friends before, it is not likely that this
friendship will be lessened by what has been
the source of so much delight rather will the
memory of the past be an earnest of future
attachment. And further, you must not forget
the superior opportunities of improvement
which will be afforded you by favouring my
suit. Lovers are so neglectful of your best
interests, that they praise everything you say
and do, partly for fear of giving offence, and
partly because their own judgment is debased
by their passion. For such are the caprices
of love \ if its victim be unsuccessful, it makes
trifles which trouble no one else seem distress
ing to him ; if successful, it exacts - from him
admiration for what contains no cause of satis
faction. So that I consider pity to be far
more suitable than congratulation for the ob
jects of such an attachment. I on the other
hand, if you yield to my wishes, will associate
with you on the following terms. Not consult-

PH^DRUS 21

ing our present gratification so much as our
future advantage ; not enslaved by passion,
but master of myself; not ready to contract a
violent animosity on slight provocation, but
slow to conceive a moderate displeasure for
serious offences, I will freely pardon all in
voluntary faults, while such as are intentional
I will endeavour to correct. For such conduct
is a sure sign of a friendship that will long
endure. But if the thought, as is not unlikely,
has suggested itself to you, that it is impossible
for attachment to be strong if unaccompanied
by passion, you ought to bear in mind, that in
that case we should care but little either for
our sons or for our fathers and mothers,
nor should we ever possess faithful friends on
any other footing than an amatory connection.
Again, if it is proper to bestow favours most
on those who need them most, it follows that
from the world in general you ought to select,
not the best, but the neediest as the objects of
your charity for the greater the misery they
are rescued from, the greater is the debt of
gratitude they will owe you. Nay, further, when
you give an entertainment, you will be expected
to ask not friends to your board, but those
who beg an invitation and require a meal ; for
they will be charmed with your kindness, and
will follow in your train and throng your doors,
and express themselves highly delighted and
deeply grateful, and invoke countless blessings
on your head. It may be though that this is
not the true ground of selection ; it may be

22 PH&DRUS

that you ought to bestow your favours, not on
those who need them most, but on those who
234 are best able to repay them ; not on lovers
merely, but on those who are worthy of the
favour in question ; not on men who will enjoy
the flower of your youth, but on those who in
your more advanced years will share with you
their fortunes ; not on such as when they have
achieved their purpose will parade their success
to the world, but on such as from feelings of
delicacy will never open their mouths on the
subject ; not on suitors who sue you with a
shortlived enthusiasm, but on friends who will
continue friends all your life long ; not on men
who, when they are released from their passion,
will seek some pretext for a quarrel, but on
those who, when your bloom is faded, will then
display their own true excellence. Remember
now, I pray you, all I have said ; and also
bear in mind that lovers are taken to task by
their friends on the score that their course of
life is a bad one ; whereas never have those
who do not love been reproached by any of
their relatives with neglecting on that account
their private affairs. You may perhaps ask
me whether I recommend you to bestow your
favours on all who do not love you. But
neither, I imagine, would a lover bid you enter
tain such sentiments towards all your lovers
alike. No, if you view the matter reasonably,
you cannot consider such conduct deserving of
equal gratitude, nor, however you might wish it,
would you be equally able to preserve the affair

23

secret from the world. And harm, you must re
member, ought to accrue to neither from the tran
saction ; advantage should rather result to both.

My suit has now been urged with arguments
which for my part I deem convincing should
you see in them any defect or omission, they
are open to any questions you may choose to ask.

Well, Socrates, what do you think of the
speech ? Is it not wonderfully fine, especially
in point of language ?

Soc. Nay, divinely, my good friend ; it quite
threw me into an ecstasy. And this sensation
I owe to you, Phaedrus ; for all the time you
were reading, I kept my eye on your face, and
saw it glow with rapture under the influence of
the speech. And esteeming you a better judge
in such matters than myself, I thought I could
not do better than follow your example, and so
I have shared with you in all your transports,
my god-inspired friend.

Ph. Nay, Socrates, always so bent on
jesting ?

Soc. Jesting ! don t you believe I am in
earnest ?

Ph. Oh, no more of this, Socrates ; but tell
me honestly, as you love me, do you believe
that any man in Greece could write more ably
and fully on the same subject ?

Soc. How do you mean, Phaedrus ? Are we
required to praise the speech for the fitness of
its subject-matter, or merely on the ground that
every word in it is clear, and rounded and
polished off with a nice precision ? If on the

24 PH&DRUS

former ground as well, it is only to please you
235 that I can comply ; since for my part my
incapacity is such, that I observed no excel
lence of the kind. For I was merely directing
my attention to its rhetorical merit, though this
I did not imagine even Lysias himself would
consider sufficient. In fact, I thought, Phaedrus
please correct me if I am wrong that he
repeated the same things two or three times
over, as though he found it no such easy
matter to say much on one subject. Perhaps,
though, it was that he did not mind this sort
of thing ; nay, I could even fancy that he was
showing off with a young man s display the
power he possessed of expressing his ideas in
two different ways, and in both with the finest
possible language.

Ph. You are quite wrong, Socrates ; the
very merit which you deny is to be found in
the speech in even an eminent degree. Of all
appropriate topics which the subject contained,
it has not omitted a single one ; so that I am
sure, that after what he has said no one could
ever support the same position at greater
length, or with arguments of greater value.

Soc. On this point, Phaedrus, it will be no
longer in my power to agree with you. For
wise men and women of old time, who have
written and spoken on the subject, will rise up
and bear witness against me, if out of com
plaisance to you I make this concession.

Ph. Whom do you mean ? where have you
ever heard the subject better treated ?

PHrf.DRUS 25

Soc. I cannot say just at the moment,
though I am sure I have heard it somewhere,
either perhaps by the fair Sappho, or the sage
Anacreon, or may be by some prose writer or
other. What leads me, you will ask, to this
conclusion ? The fact is, my worthy Phaedrus,
that my breast, I know not how, is full of
matter, and I feel that I could be delivered of
a speech different from, and in no wise inferior
to this. Now that I have invented none of it
myself, I am confident, as I am no stranger to
my own stupidity. It remains then, I think,
that like a pitcher I have been filled, through
my ears, from some foreign springs ; but here
again so stupid am I, that I have quite for
gotten both how and where I gained my
information.

/ //. Never mind, Socrates, you have told
me most excellent tidings ; don t trouble your
self about telling me how or from whom you
heard it, but just do the very thing that you
say. Undertake to produce a speech of equal
length and merit with that which I have got
written here, without availing yourself of any
of its arguments, and for my part I promise
you, after the fashion of the nine archons, that
1 will dedicate to the god at Delphi a golden
statue as large as life, not only of myself, but
also of you.

Soc. You are very kind, Phaedrus, and quite
deserve the statue of gold, if you understand
me to mean that Lysias missed his mark
altogether, and that it is possible to produce a

26 PHJEDRUS

speech which shall contain nothing that he
said. No, I do not think this could be done
with even the most worthless writer. Since,
to take our present subject, do you suppose
that any man who was maintaining the superior
claims of the unimpassioned to those of the
impassioned suitor, would be able to proceed
with his arguments if he were to omit lauding
the sanity of the one, and blaming the insanity
236 of the other ? these being topics which are
necessarily inherent in the proposition. No,
such arguments ought, I think, to be allowed
and conceded to the author ; and in all such it
is not the invention, but the arrangement that
should be admired ; whereas in those which,
instead of being impossible to miss, are difficult
to find, the invention as well as the arrange
ment may claim our approval.

Ph. I admit the distinction, as it appears to
me to be fairly stated. And what is more, I
will act up to it. I will allow you to assume
that a man in love is in a more diseased con
dition than one who is not in love, and if,
when this point is put out of the question on
both sides, you surpass Lysias in the number
and value of your arguments, you may expect
to figure in massive gold at Olympia by the
side of the offering of the Cypselidas.

Soc. You have taken it quite to heart,
Phaedrus, that in teasing you I have laid hold
upon your favourite ; and I see you expect that
I shall really attempt, in emulation of his skill, to
produce something still more skilfully wrought.

PH&DRUS 27

Ph. For that matter, my friend, you have
given me quite as good a hold on you. For
speak you must as well as you are able ; there
is no help for it. But do take care that we are
not compelled to have recourse to the vulgar
stage-trick of retorting upon each other ; pray
don t force me to say as you did just now :
My good Socrates, if I don t know Socrates, I
don t know Phaedrus any longer ; and again,
1 Socrates is dying to speak, but affects to be
coy. No, make up your mind that we will not
stir from this spot, till you have disclosed what
you said you had in your breast. For here we
are by ourselves in a retired place, and I am
the younger and stronger man of the two. All
which things being considered, you had better
mind what I say, and determine to speak of
your own free will rather than by compulsion.

Soc. But really, Phaedrus, it would be ludic
rous in a novice like me to set myself in com
parison with an experienced author, and extem
porise on a subject which he has discussed.

Ph. I ll tell you what it is, Socrates ; you
must let me have no more of this coquetting,
as I am pretty sure I have that to say which
will compel you to speak.

Soc. Pray don t say it then.

Ph. Nay, but I will, and here it is. And it
shall be in the form of an oath. I swear to
you by whom, by what god shall I swear ?
Shall it be by this plane-tree? Yes, by this
plane I swear, that if you do not produce your
speech here before her, I will never again

28 PHJEDRUS

either report or recite to you the speech of any
author whatsoever.

Soc. Ah, wretch, well have you discovered
the means of compelling a speech-enamoured
man to do your bidding, whatever it be !

Ph. What makes you hang back, then ?

Soc. I will do so no more, since you,
Phaedrus, have sworn this oath. For how
could I ever have the heart to exclude myself
237 from such a feast ?

Ph. Begin then.

Soc. Shall I tell you what I mean to do ?

Ph. About what ?

Soc. I mean to speak with my face covered,
that I may hurry through the speech as quickly
as possible, and not break down for shame, by
looking at you.

Ph. Well, do but speak, and you may settle
everything else as you like.

Soc. Come now, ye Muses called Ligaean,
whether it be to the nature of your song, or to
the music -loving race of the Ligyans that ye
owe the name, come help me in the tale
which my kind friend here is forcing me to
tell, in order that his favourite, who even here
tofore seemed to him to be wise, may -now
seem wiser than ever.

There was once upon a time a boy, say
rather a youth, of surpassing beauty. Now
this youth had very many lovers ; but one of
them was a cunning fellow, who though he
loved him no less warmly than his rivals, had
made the youth believe that he loved him not.

s

PHsF.DRUS 29

d one day as he was urging his suit, he
dertook to prove this very point, that the
dispassionate suitor had a better claim on his
favour than the impassioned lover. And here
is his proof.

On every subject, my friend, there is but
one mode of beginning for those who would
deliberate well. They must know what the
thing is on which they are deliberating, or else
of necessity go altogether astray. Most men,
however, are blind to the fact that they are
ignorant of the essential character of each in
dividual thing. Fancying therefore that they
possess this knowledge, they come to no mutual
understanding at the outset of their inquiry ;
and in the sequel they exhibit the natural con
sequence, an inconsistency with themselves and
each other. Let not you and me then fall into
the error which we condemn in others ; but
since the question before us is, whether love or
the absence of love is desirable in friendship,
let us first establish by mutual consent a de
finition of love that will explain its nature and
its powers ; and then, with this to look back
upon and refer to, let us proceed to consider
whether it is profitable or injurious in its results.
Now that love is a kind of desire is clear to
every one, and equally clear is it on the other
hand, that without being in love we desire
beautiful objects. How then are we to mark
the lover ? We should further observe, that
in every one of us there are two ruling and
directing principles, whose guidance we follow

30 PH^DRUS

wherever they may lead ; the one being an
innate desire of pleasure ; the other, an acquired
judgment which aspires after excellence. Now
these two principles at one time maintain har
mony ; while at another they are at feud within
us, and now one and now the other obtains
the mastery. When judgment leads us with
sound reason to virtue, and asserts its authority,
we assign to that authority the name of temper
ance ; but when desire drags us irrationally to
pleasures, and has established its sway within
us, that sway is denominated excess. Now
238 excess, you must know, is a thing of many
names, as it is of many parts and many forms.
And of these forms, that which may happen to
have obtained the predominance brands its
possessor with its own name, and that one
neither honourable nor worth possessing. For
instance, when desire in regard of eating gets
the better of the highest reason and the other
desires, it will be termed gluttony, and cause
its possessor to be called a glutton. If again
it has usurped dominion in the matter of drink
ing, and drags the individual affected by it in
this direction, I need not say what designation
it will acquire. And since in general names
akin to these names are applied to desires
akin to these desires, it is sufficiently clear
what is the proper appellation of the desire
which for the time being happens to be domi
nant. Now my motive for introducing these
previous remarks must by this time be pretty
well evident ; but nothing is so clear that it

PHsEDRUS 31

does not admit of becoming clearer by being
spoken. When desire, having rejected reason
and overpowered judgment which leads to
right, is set in the direction of the pleasure
which beauty can inspire, and when again
under the influence of its kindred desires it
is moved with violent motion towards the
beauty of corporeal forms, it acquires a sur
name from this very violent motion, and is
called love. But by the way, my dear Phae-
drus, do I appear to you, as I do to myself,
to have been speaking under some influence
divine ?

Ph. There certainly can be no doubt, So
crates, that an unusual kind of fluency has
come upon you.

Soc. Hearken then in silence to my words,
for in very truth the place where we are sitting
seems holy ground. So that if haply in the
course of my oration I become entranced by
the spirits of the spot, you must not marvel
thereat ; for my present utterance falls no
longer far short of a dithyrambic strain.

Ph. Most true ; it does not.

Soc. And for this, Phsedrus, you are answer
able. But listen to the remainder of my speech,
for it may be that I shall escape the trance.
This, however, will be as Heaven pleases ; for
ourselves, we must return in our discourse to
the beautiful boy.

Come then, my excellent youth. Since the
definition of the subject under discussion has
been stated and accurately marked, let us now

32 PH^DRUS

keep this in our view, while we proceed to con
sider what advantage or injury is likely to result
to you from favouring the wishes of an im
passioned and unimpassioned suitor respectively.
If a man be governed by desire and the slave
of pleasure, he must of necessity, I think,
endeavour to render his beloved the source of
as much pleasure to himself as he possibly
can. Now, to a sick man everything gives
pleasure that does not oppose itself to his
wishes, but whatever asserts a superiority or
even an equality, excites his dislike. A lover,
therefore, if he can help it, will not bear his
favourite to be either superior to or on a level
239 with himself, but is always striving to lower
him and make him inferior. Now ignorance
is inferior to learning, cowardice to courage,
incapacity as a speaker to oratorical skill,
heaviness of intellect to a ready wit. Such,
among many others, are the mental defects
which a lover must needs rejoice to find in his
loved one if they are naturally inherent, and
which, if they result from education, he must
endeavour to instil, or else forfeit his immediate
gratification. The consequence is, that your
lover will regard you with a jealous eye, and
by debarring you from many valuable acquaint
ances, the cultivation of which would be most
conducive to your growth in manliness, he will
do you serious harm, and the greatest harm of
all by excluding you from that which would
make you most truly wise ; I mean the study
of Divine Philosophy, from which your lover

PHJEDRUS 33

will be sure to keep you as far as possible
asunder, for fear of your there learning to
despise him. And not content with this, he
will so scheme as to leave you in total ignor
ance of every subject whatever, so that on
every subject you may be compelled to look to
him for information ; as this is the condition
for you to be in that will cause him the keenest
delight, but yourself the most ruinous harm.
So far then as mental improvement is con
cerned, you cannot have a less profitable guide
and companion than a suitor who is under the
influence of love.

Let us now proceed to consider what will be
your corporeal habit, and what your course of
bodily discipline, if you have for your lord and
master a man who cannot help pursuing plea
sure in preference to virtue. Such a person
will be seen running after a delicate stripling,
not hardy in frame nor reared beneath a scorch
ing sun, but fondled under the shade of blend
ing trees ; a stranger to manly toil and healthful
sweatings, but no stranger to the softness of a
woman s life, decking his person with false
colours and ornaments, in lack of nature s
graces, and given in short to all such practices
as are the natural concomitants of these. What
they are, you know so well that I need not
dilate on them further ; but, summing them up
under one general head, I will proceed to an
other branch of my subject. They are such
that the youth whose body is trained in them
will not fail in time of battle and all serious
D

34 PH^ZDRUS

emergencies to inspire his enemies with con
fidence, but his friends and even his lovers
with alarm.

To pass from these obvious reflections, let
us in the next place examine what advantage
or what injury to your fortune we may expect
to find resulting from the companionship and
management of a lover. Clear it must be to
every one, and to the lover himself most of all,
that there is nothing he would pray for so
earnestly as for the object of his attachment to
be deprived of his dearest, fondest, and holiest
treasures. Gladly would he see him bereft of
father and mother, of relations and friends, as
in them he views only so many censors and
obstacles in the way of that commerce with
240 his beloved which he loves most dearly. More
over, if a youth be possessed of property in
gold or other kind of substance, he will not
appear so ready a prey, nor so easy of manage
ment when caught in the toils. And thus it can
not possibly be but that a lover will grudge his
favourite the possession of fortune, and rejoice
sincerely in its loss. Nay more, he would fain
have him remain as long as possible without
wife, or child, or home, in his desire of reaping
for the longest time he can the full enjoyment
of his own delights.

There are, I am aware, other evils beside
this in the world, though few with which some
deity has not mingled a temporary gratification.
A parasite, for instance, is a shocking and a
baneful monster, yet still nature has infused

PH&DRUS 35

into his blandishments a not unpolished charm.
A mistress moreover may be condemned as a
dangerous evil ; and the same objection may
be made to a variety of similar creatures and
pursuits, which are yet capable of affording, for
the passing hour at least, the keenest enjoy
ment. But a lover, beside being detrimental
to his favourite, is of all distasteful things the
most distasteful in daily intercourse. We are
told by an ancient saying, that youth is pleased
with youth, and age with age : I suppose be
cause a similarity of years, leading to a simi
larity of pleasures, by virtue of resemblance
engenders friendship. But yet the intercourse
even of equals is not unattended by satiety.
And further, in every transaction every one, it
is said, finds compulsion irksome ; and this is
an evil which, in addition to their want of
sympathy, is felt in the highest degree by the
favourite in the society of his lover. For an
old man is the companion of a young one,
never leaving him if he can help it by day or
by night, but driven onward by a resistless
frenzy, which is all the while ministering to
him indeed exquisite pleasure as long as by
his sight, his hearing, his touch, his every
sense, he is made aware of the presence of the
beautiful boy, so that he would love nothing
better than to cling to his side unceasingly:
but as for the object of that attachment, what
kind of solace, I ask, or what pleasure, can he
possibly receive in return to save him during
all that long companionship from reaching the

36 PH^DRUS

very extremity of disgust ; when he has ever
before his eyes the bloomless countenance of
age, and that too with all those accompani
ments which we cannot hear even spoken of
without repugnance, much less feel actually
forced upon us by an ever-pressing necessity ;
when he has, moreover, on every occasion, and
in all company, to be on his guard against cen
sorious observation ; when he has to listen
either to unseasonable and extravagant praises,
or, with equal probability, to unendurable re
proaches from his lover s sober caprice, while
from his drunken excess he may expect an
unveiled and loathsome licentiousness of speech,
which is not only intolerable, but infamous to
hear.

And if, during the continuance of his passion,
a lover is at once hurtful and disgusting, as
surely, when his passion is over, will he be for
the remainder of his life a traitor to one whom
with many promises, aye and many an oath
241 and prayer, he could scarcely prevail on to
endure the present burden of his society in
hope of future advantage. Yes, I say, at the
time when payment should be made, he finds
that he has received within his breast a new
ruler and a new lord, to wit, wisdom and tem
perance, in the stead of passion and madness,
and that he is become a new man, without his
favourite being conscious of the change. So
the youth demands a return for former favours,
and reminds him of all that has passed between
them in word and deed, under the impression

rHsEDRUS 37

that he is speaking to the same person. But
the other, for very shame, dares neither avow
the alteration that has come upon him, nor can
he bring himself to fulfil the oaths and pro
mises of that former insensate reign, now that
wisdom and temperance have set their throne
in his heart, for fear that, if he should act as
he did before, he might become like what he
was before, and return back again to his old
condition. And thus it is that he is a run
away, and of necessity a defrauder, where once
he was a lover, and in the turning of a pot
sherd is changed from pursuer into pursued :
for the youth is compelled to give chase with
indignation and curses, having alas ! been
ignorant from the very first, that he ought not
to bestow his favours on one who was in love,
and of consequence a madman, but much rather
on one who did not love and retained his
senses ; as in the former case he would have
to surrender himself to a faithless, peevish,
jealous wretch, who would do harm to his sub
stance, and harm to his bodily^ habit, but far
the greatest harm to the cultivation of his soul,
than which in the eyes both of gods and men
there neither is nor ever will be aught more
dearly prized. Think deeply, my beautiful boy,
on the words I have spoken, and remember that
a lover s friendship is no attachment of good will,
but that with an appetite which lusts for repletion,

As wolves love lambs, so lovers love their loves.
Ah PhaDdrus, the very thing I dreaded ! You

38 PHMDRUS

must not expect to hear another word from me,
but be content that my speech should termin
ate here.

Ph. Why, Socrates, I thought it was only
half finished, and that it would have quite as
much to say in supporting the claim of the
unimpassioned suitor, and enumerating the
advantages which he has to offer in oppo
sition. How is it then that you are leaving off
now?

Soc. Did you not observe, my learned friend,
that I had already got beyond dithyrambics,
and was giving utterance to epics, and that too,
while engaged in blaming ? Pray what do you
imagine will become of me, if I commence a
panegyric ? don t you know that of a certainty
I shall be lifted into ecstasy by the nymphs
to whose influence you have designedly exposed
me ? For fear then of such a fate, I tell you
in a single word, that for all the evil I have
spoken of the one, I attribute just the opposite
good to the other. And what need of a pro
tracted discourse, when enough has been said
upon both sides ? And thus my tale will meet
242 with that reception which it deserves : and for
myself I will cross the stream, and go home before
you force me into something more serious still.

Ph. Not yet, Socrates, not till the heat of
the day is past. Don t you see that the sun is
already near standing still at high noon, as
they phrase it ? so pray wait, and let us talk
over together what has been said, and return
home as soon as it becomes cool.

fBMDRVS 39

Soc. You are a strange person with your
speeches, Ph^drus ; you quite amaze me. I
do believe, that of all the speeches that have
been composed during your lifetime, a greater
number owe their existence to you than to any
other person in the world, whether they be of
your own composition, or extorted from some
one else by fair means or foul. If we except
Simmias of Thebes, there is no one who will
bear competition with you. And now again I
believe we shall find another speech which will
have to thank you for its delivery.

Ph. No bad tidings these, certainly; but
how is this the case, and what speech do you

mean

Soc. Just as I was about to cross the river,
I was made aware of my divine monitor s
wonted sign now it never occurs save to
deter me from something or other I am in
tending to do and methought therefrom I
heard \ voice from this very spot, forbidding
me to depart hence till I had purified myself,
as though I had been guilty of some offence
against Heaven. Now,, you must know, 1
possess something of prophetic skill, though no
very great amount, but, like indifferent writers,
just enough for my own purposes. And thus
it is that I have now at last a clear perception
of my error. I say at last, because I can
assure you, my good friend, that the soul too
is in some sort prophetic. For mine pricked
me some time ago, as I was uttering that
speech, and my face, as Ibycus says, was

40 PH.&DRUS

darkened for fear lest I might be purchasing
honour on earth by some offence at the high
court of heaven. But now I have discovered
my sin.

Ph. And pray what was it ?

Soc. That was a shocking, shocking speech
which you brought here yourself, Phaedrus, and
so was the one you forced me to utter.

Ph. In what way were they shocking ?

Soc. They were foolish, and somewhat im
pious withal ; and what can be more shocking
than this ?

Ph. Nothing, if your charge be a true one.

Soc. And is it not ? Don t you believe
Love to be the son of Aphrodite, and a god ?

Ph. He is said to be so, certainly.

Soc. Certainly not by Lysias, nor by that
speech of yours which found utterance through
my lips after they had been bewitched by you.
- No, if Love be, as indeed he is, a god, or of
godly sort, he cannot be aught that is evil ; yet
as such he is represented in both our speeches.
This, therefore, is the offence they were guilty
of with regard to Love ; and not only this, but
with a naivete that is highly amusing, though
they do not utter a single sound or true word
243 throughout, they yet talk as gravely as if they
were of consequence, on the strength, it may
be, of expecting to impose upon some poor
simpletons, and win a fair name among them.
I therefore, for my part, Phaedrus, must of
necessity purify myself. And for all who sin
in matter of legends, there is an ancient form

PH^DRUS 41

of purification with which Stesichorus was
acquainted, though Homer was not. For
when he was deprived of his eyesight for
maligning Helen, he was not ignorant, like
Homer, of the cause, but a true votary of the
Muses, he learnt his fault, and straightway sang

False was my tale unpassed the rolling sea,
And Troy s proud turrets never viewed by thee.

And so, having composed all his palinode, as
it is called, he immediately recovered his sight.
I, however, will be wiser than either of those
bards in one particular. Ere any evil befall
me for my defamation of Love, I will offer
him my palinode by way of atonement, with
my head bare, and no longer, as before,
muffled up for shame.

Ph. You could not have said anything that
would give me greater pleasure than this.

Soc. I believe you, my good friend ; for you
feel as well as I do, how shameless was the
tone of both our speeches. For just conceive
their being overheard by some gentleman of
mild and generous feeling, who is either now,
or has at some past time of his life been,
enamoured of a youth of congenial disposition.
If, for instance, he were to hear us maintain
ing that on slight provocation lovers contract
violent animosities, and make both jealous and
dangerous companions to their favourites, do
you think it possible that he could help fancy
ing himself listening to persons who had been
bred among sailors, and had never witnessed

42 PH^DRUS

an ingenuous passion, and would he not, think
you, be very far from admitting the justice of
our censures on love ?

Ph. I don t doubt it, Socrates.

Soc. Out of delicacy then to such a lover as
this, and for fear of the god of love himself, I
desire by a fresh and sweet discourse to wash
out, so to speak, the brackish taste of the stuff
we have just heard. And I would recommend
Lysias too to make all the haste he can to
prove that, under similar circumstances, the
suit of a lover should be preferred to that of
one who is not in love.

Ph. You need have no doubt of this being
done, Socrates. If you deliver your panegyric
on love, Lysias most certainly shall not escape
composing another on the same side.

Soc. Well, I can trust you for this, so long
as you are the man you are.

Ph. Speak on then with confidence.

Soc. But where, I want to know, is the boy
to whom I addressed my former speech, as I
should be sorry for him to run away without
hearing this as well, and favour in his haste the
suit of an unimpassioned wooer.

Ph. Here he is by your side, quite ready for
you when you want him.

Soc. You must understand then, my beautiful
boy, that my late speech was the production of
244 the gay Phaedrus, son of the fame - loving
Pythocles, the nursling of the myrtle-beds of
Myrrhinus ; but that I am indebted for the
one I am now about to deliver to the inspired

PH&DRUS 43

bard Stesichorus, son of the holy Euphemus,
bred at Himera in the mysteries of love. Now,
it must begin on this wise :

False is the tale which says that when a
lover is present, favour ought rather to be
shown to one, who is no lover, on the score,
forsooth, of the one being mad and the other
sane. For if it were true, without exception,
that madness is an evil, there would be no
harm in the assertion ; but, as it is, we owe our
greatest blessings to madness, if only it be
granted by Heaven s bounty. For the pro
phetess at Delphi, you are well aware, and the
priestesses of Dodona, have in their moments
of madness done great and glorious service to
the men and the cities of Greece, but little or
none in their sober mood. And if we were to
speak of the Sibyl and all others, that by
exercise of inspired divination have told before
hand many things to many men, and thereby
guided them aright in their future courses, we
should run to a great length in telling only
what every one knows. There is one fact,
however, to which it would be worth our while
solemnly to appeal ; I mean that, in the opinion
of the name-givers of ancient times, madness
was no disgrace or reproach ; else they would
never have attached this very name to that
most glorious art whereby the future is dis
cerned. No, it was because they judged of it
as a glorious thing when inspired by Heaven s
grace, that they gave it the name of /uui i/oj ;
it is only the vulgar taste of a later age, that by

44 PHALDRUS

inserting the tau has made it yuavTt/o) instead.
Since you will find, in like manner, that the
investigation of the future, which is carried on
by people in their senses through the medium
of birds and other signs, received at first the
name of oiovoib-Ti/cr), inasmuch as by means of
thought, men furnished themselves out of their
own minds with intelligence and information ;
but moderns, not content with this word, gave
it dignity with their long o, and called it oiWi-
CTTI/O}. As much then as divination is a more
perfect and a more precious thing than augury
both in name and efficiency, so much more
glorious, by the testimony of the ancients, is
madness than sober sense, the inspiration of
Heaven than the creation of men. Again, for
those sore plagues and dire afflictions, which
you are aware lingered in certain families as
the wraith of some old ancestral guilt, madness
devised a remedy, after it had entered into the
heart of the proper persons, and to the proper
persons revealed its secrets ; for it fled for
refuge to prayer and services of the gods, and
thence obtaining purifications and atoning rites
made its possessor whole for time present and
time to come, by showing him the way of
escape from the evils that encompassed him, if
245 only he were rightly frenzied and possessed.
And thirdly, there is a possession and a mad
ness inspired by the Muses, which seizes upon
a tender and a virgin soul, and, stirring it up
to rapturous frenzy, adorns in ode and other
verse the countless deeds of elder time for the

PHALDRUS 45

instruction of after ages. But whosoever with
out the madness of the Muses comes to knock
at the doors of poesy, from the conceit that
haply by force of art he will become an efficient
poet, departs with blasted hopes, and his poetry,
the poetry of sense, fades into obscurity before
the poetry of madness.

Such, and yet more, are the glorious results
I can tell you of as proceeding from a madness
inspired by the gods. Let us not therefore
regard with apprehension the particular result
we are considering, nor be perplexed and
frightened by any arguments into the belief
that we ought to select the sensible rather
than the enraptured man as our friend. No,
our opponent must not carry off the palm of
victory till he has likewise made it evident,
that for no good is love sent from heaven to
lover and beloved. With us, on the other
hand, rests the proof that such a madness as
this is given by God to man for his highest
possible happiness. Now my proof, I am
aware, will meet with no credit from the subtle
disputant, but in the eyes of the truly wise it
will be convincing. First of all then I must
investigate the truth with regard to the nature
of the soul, both human and divine, by observ
ing its conditions and powers. And thus do I
begin my demonstration.

Every soul is immortal for whatever is in
perpetual motion is immortal. Now the thing
which moves another and is by another moved,
as it may cease to be moved, may cease also

46 PHALDRUS

to live ; it is only that which moves itself,
inasmuch as it never quits itself, that never
ceases moving, but is to everything else that is
moved a source and beginning of motion. Now
a beginning is uncreate ; for everything that is
created must be created from a beginning, but
a beginning itself from nothing whatever : for
if a beginning were created from anything, it
would not be a beginning. Again, since it is
uncreate, it must also of necessity be inde
structible. For if a beginning be destroyed, it
can neither itself be at any time created from
anything, nor can anything else be created
from it, if, as is evidently true, everything must
be created from a beginning. Thus we see
then that that which is self-moved is the be
ginning of motion, and as being such can
neither be created nor destroyed ; else must
all the universe and all creation collapse and
come to a standstill, and never at any time
find that whereby they may be again set in
motion and come into being. And now that
that which is moved by itself has been found
to be immortal, none will hesitate to assert that
this power of self-motion is implied in the very
essence and definition of a soul. For every
body which receives motion from without we
call soulless ; but that, which receives motion
from within of itself, we say is possessed of
soul, as though in this lay the soul s very
246 nature. And if it be true, that that which is
self- moved is nothing else than the soul, it
follows of necessity that the soul must be a

PHsEDRUS 47

thing both uncreate and immortal. For its
immortality let this suffice.

In considering its form let us proceed in the
following manner. To explain what the soul
is, would be a long and most assuredly a god
like labour ; to say what it resembles, is a
shorter and a human task. Let us attempt
then the latter ; let us say that the soul re-
sembles the combined efficacy of a pair of
w i iiged steeds and a charioteer! Now the
horse s and drivers of the ^ods are all both
good themselves and of good extraction, but
the character and breed of all others is mixed.
In the first place, with us men the supreme
ruler has a pair of horses to manage, and then
of these horses he finds one generous and of
generous breed, the other of opposite descent
and opposite character. And thus it neces
sarily follows that driving in our case is no
easy or agreeable work. We must at this
point endeavour to express what we mean
respectively by a mortal and an immortal
animal. All that is soul presides over all that
is without soul, and patrols all heaven, now
appearing in one form and now in another.
When it is perfect and fully feathered, it roams
in upper air, and regulates the entire universe ;
but the soul that has lost its feathers is carried
down till it finds some solid resting-place ; and
when it has settled there, when it has taken to
itself, that is, an earthly body, which seems
capable of self-motion, owing to the power of
its new inmate, the name of animal is given to

48 PH&DRUS

the whole ; to this compound, I mean, of soul
and body, with the addition of the epithet
mortal. The immortal, on the other hand, has
received its name from the conclusion of no
human reasoning ; but without having either
seen or formed any adequate conception of a
god, we picture him to ourselves as an im
mortal animal, possessed of soul and possessed
of body, and of both in intimate conjunction
from all eternity. But this matter I leave to
be and to be told as Heaven pleases my task
is to discover what is the cause that makes the
feathers fall off the soul. It is something, I
conceive, of the following kind.

The natural efficacy of a wing is to lift up
heavy substances, and bear them aloft to those
upper regions which are inhabited by the race
of the gods. And of all the parts connected
with the body it has perhaps shared most
largely (with the soul) in the divine nature.
Now of this nature are beauty, wisdom, virtue,
and all similar qualities. By these then the
plumage of the soul is chiefly fostered and
increased ; by ugliness, vice, and all such con
traries, it is wasted and destroyed. Zeus, the
great chieftain in heaven, driving a winged car,
travels first, arranging and presiding over all
things ; and after him comes a host of gods
and inferior deities, marshalled in eleven divi-
247 sions, for Hestia stays at home alone in the
mansion of the gods ; but all the other ruling
powers, that have their place in the number of
the twelve, march at the head of a troop in

PIL EDRUS 49

the order to which they have been severally
appointed. Now there are, it is true, many
ravishing views and opening paths within the
bounds of heaven, whereon the family of the
blessed gods go to and fro, each in performance
of his own proper work ; and they are followed
by all who from time to time possess both will
and power ; for envy has no place in the celestial
choir. But whenever they go to feast and
revel, they forthwith journey by an uphill path
to the summit of the heavenly vault. Now the
chariots of the gods being of equal poise, and
obedient to the rein, move easily, but all others
with difficulty; for they are burdened by the
horse of vicious temper, which sways and sinks
them towards the earth, if haply he has received
no good training from his charioteer. Where
upon there awaits the soul a crowning pain and
agony. For those which we called immortal
go outside when they are come to the topmost
height, and stand on the outer surface of
heaven, and as they stand they are borne
round by its revolution, and gaze on the ex
ternal scene. Now of that region beyond the
sky no earthly bard has ever yet sung or ever
will sing in worthy strains. But this is the
fashion of it ; for sure I must venture to speak
the truth, especially as truth is my theme.
Real existence, colourless, formless, and in
tangible, visible only to the intelligence which
sits at the helm of the soul, and with which the
family of true science is concerned, has its
abode in this region. The mind then of deity,
E

50 PH&DRUS

as it is fed by intelligence and pure science,
and the mind of every soul that is destined to
receive its due inheritance, is delighted at seeing
the essence to which it has been so long a
stranger, and by the light of truth is fostered
and made to thrive, until, by the revolution of
the heaven, it is brought round again to the
same point. And during the circuit it sees
distinctly absolute justice, and absolute temper
ance, and absolute science ; not such as they
appear in creation, nor under the variety of
forms to which we nowadays give the name of
realities, but the justice, the temperance, the
science, which exist in that which is real and
essential being. And when in like manner it
has seen all the rest of the world of essence,
and feasted on the sight, it sinks down again
into the interior of heaven, and returns to its
own home. And on its arrival, the charioteer
takes his horses to the manger, and sets before
them ambrosia, and gives them nectar to drink
248 with it. Such is the life of the gods ; but of
the other souls, that which follows a god most
closely and resembles him most nearly, succeeds
in raising the head of its charioteer into the
outer region, and is carried round with the
immortals in their revolution, though sore en
cumbered by its horses, and barely able to
contemplate the real existences ; while another
rises and sinks by turns, his horses plunging so
violently that he can discern no more than a
part of these existences. But the common
herd follow at a distance, all of them indeed

PH^EDRUS 51

burning with desire for the upper world, but,
failing to reach it, they make the revolution in
the moisture of the lower element, trampling on
one another, and striking against one another, in
their efforts to rush one before the other. Hence
ensues the extremest turmoil and struggling
and sweating ; and herein, by the awkward
ness of the drivers, many souls are maimed, and
many lose many feathers in the crush ; and all
after painful labour go away without being
blessed by admission to the spectacle of truth,
and thenceforth live on the food of mere
opinion.

And now will I tell you the motives of this
great anxiety to behold the fields of truth. The
suitable pasturage for the noblest portion of
the soul is grown on the meadows there, and
it is the nature of the wing, which bears aloft
the soul, to be fostered thereby ; and moreover,
there is an irrevocable decree, that if any soul
has followed a god in close companionship and
discerned any of the true essences, it shall con
tinue free from harm till the next revolution,
and if it be ever thus successful, it shall be ever
thus unharmed : but whenever, from inability
to follow, it has missed that glorious sight, and,
through some mishap it may have encountered,
has become charged with forgetfulness and
vice, and been thereby so burdened as to shed
its feathers and fall to the earth, in that case
there is a law that the soul thus fallen be not
planted in any bestial nature during the first
generation, but that if it has seen more than

52 PH&DRUS

others of essential verity, it pass into the germ
of a man who is to become a lover of wisdom,
or a lover of beauty, or some votary of the
Muses and Love ; if it be of second rank, it is
to enter the form of a constitutional ruler, a
warrior, or a man fitted for command ; the
third will belong to a politician, or economist,
or merchant ; the fourth, to a laborious pro
fessor of gymnastics, or some disciple of the
healing art ; the fifth will be possessed by a
soothsayer, or some person connected with
mysteries ; the sixth will be best suited by the
life of a poet or some other imitative artist ;
the seventh, by the labour of an artisan or a
farmer ; the eighth, by the trade of a sophist
or a demagogue ; and the ninth, by the lot of
an absolute monarch. And in all these various
conditions those who have lived justly receive
afterwards a better lot ; those who have lived
unjustly, a worse. For to that same place
from which each soul set out, it does not re-
249 turn for ten thousand years ; so long is it
before it recovers its plumage, unless it has
belonged to a guileless lover of philosophy, or
a philosophic lover of boys. But these souls,
during their third millennium, if only they have
chosen thrice in succession this form of exist
ence, do in this case regain their feathers, and
at its conclusion wing their departure. But all
the rest are, on the termination of their first
life, brought to trial ; and, according to their
sentence, some go to the prison-houses beneath
the earth, to suffer for their sins ; while others,

PH&DRUS 53

by virtue of their trial, are borne lightly up
wards to some celestial spot, where they pass
their days in a manner worthy of the life they
have lived in their mortal form. But in the
thousandth year both divisions come back
again to share and choose their second life,
and they select that which they severally
please. And then it is that a human soul
passes into the life of a beast, and from a
beast who was once a man the soul comes
back into a man again. For the soul which
has never seen the truth at all can never enter
into the human form ; it being a necessary con
dition of a man that he should apprehend
according to that which is called a generic
form, which, proceeding from a variety of per
ceptions, is by reflection combined into unity.
And this is nothing more nor less than a re
collection of those things which in time past
our soul beheld when it travelled with a god,
and, looking high over what we now call real,
lifted up its head into the region of eternal
essence. And thus you see it is with justice
that the mind of the philosopher alone recovers
its plumage, for to the best of its power it is
ever fixed in memory on that glorious spectacle,
by the contemplation of which the godhead is
divine. And it is only by the right use of
such memorials as these, and by ever perfect
ing himself in perfect mysteries, that a man
becomes really perfect. But because such an
one stands aloof from human interests, and is
rapt in contemplation of the divine, he is taken

54 PH&DRVS

to task by the multitude as a man demented,
because the multitude do not see that he is by
God inspired.

It will now appear what conclusion the whole
course of our argument has reached with regard
to the fourth kind of madness, with which a
man is inspired whenever, by the sight of beauty
in this lower world, the true beauty of the world
above is so brought to his remembrance that he
begins to recover his plumage, and feeling new
wings longs to soar aloft ; but the power failing
him gazes upward like a bird, and becomes
heedless of all lower matters, thereby exposing
himself to the imputation of being crazed. And
the conclusion is this, that of all kinds of en
thusiasm this is the best, as well in character
as in origin, for those who possess it, whether
fully or in part ; and further, that he who loves
beautiful objects must partake of this madness
before he can deserve the name of lover. For
though, as I said before, every man s soul has
by the law of his birth been a spectator of
eternal truth, or it would never have passed
250 into this our mortal frame, yet still it is no easy
matter for all to be reminded of their past by
their present existence. It is hot easy either
for those who, during that struggle I told you
of, caught but a brief glimpse of upper glories,
nor for those who, after their fall to this world,
were so unfortunate as to be turned aside by
evil associations into the paths of wickedness,
and so made to forget that holy spectacle.
Few, few only are there left, with whom the

PH&DRUS 55

world of memory is duly present. And these
few, whenever they see here any resemblance
of what they witnessed there, are struck with
wonder, and can no longer contain themselves,
though what it is that thus affects them they
know not, for want of sufficient discernment.
Now in the likenesses existing here of justice,
and temperance, and all else which souls hold
precious, there is no brightness ; but through
the medium of dull dim instruments it is but
seldom and with difficulty that people are en
abled on meeting with the copies to recognise
the character of the original. But beauty not
only shone brightly on our view at the time
when in the heavenly choir we, for our part,
followed in the band of Zeus, as others in the
bands of other gods, and saw that blissful sight
and spectacle, and were initiated into that
mystery which I fear not to pronounce the
most blessed of all mysteries ; for we who
celebrated it were perfect and untainted by the
evil that awaited us in time to come, and per
fect too, and simple, and calm, and blissful
were the visions which we were solemnly
admitted to gaze upon in the purest light,
ourselves being no less pure, nor as yet en
tombed in that which we now drag about with
us and call the body, being fettered to it as an
oyster to his shell. Excuse my so far indulg
ing memory, which has carried me to a greater
length than I intended, in my yearning for a
happiness that is past. I return to beauty.
Not only, as I said before, did she shine brightly

56 PHALDRUS

among her fellows there, but when we came
hither we found her, through the medium of
our clearest sense, gleaming far more clearly
than them all. For sight is the keenest of our
bodily senses, though it fails of distinguishing
wisdom. For terrible would be the passion
inspired by her, or by any other of those lovely
realities, if they exhibited to the eye of sense
any such clear resemblance of themselves as is
the image afforded by beauty. No, to beauty
alone is the privilege given of being at once
most conspicuous and most lovely. The man,
it is true, whose initiation is of ancient date, or
who has lost his purity here, is slow in being
carried hence to the essential beauty of the
upper world, when he sees that which bears its
name in this. Accordingly, he feels no rever
ence as he gazes on the beautiful object, but,
abandoning himself to lust, attempts like a
brute beast to gratify his appetite, and in his
251 wanton approaches knows nor fear^ior shame
at this unnatural pursuit of pleasure^ But when
ever one who is fresh from those mysteries, who
saw much of that heavenly vision, beholds in
any godlike face or form a successful copy of
original beauty, he first of all feels a shuddering
chill, and there creep over him some of those
terrors that assailed him in that dire struggle ;
then, as he continues to gaze, he is inspired
with a reverential awe, and did he not fear the
repute of exceeding madness, he would offer
sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of a
god. Afterwards follow the natural results of

PH&DRUS 57

his chill, a sudden change, a sweating and glow
of unwonted heat. For he has received through
his eyes the emanation of beauty, and has been
warmed thereby, and his native plumage is
watered. And by the warmth the parts where
the feathers sprout are softened, after having
been long so closed up by their hardness as to
hinder the feathers from growing. But as soon
as this nourishing shower pours in, the quill of
the feather begins to swell, and struggles to
-start up from the root, and spread beneath the
whole surface of the soul ; for in old time the
soul was entirely feathered.

In this process therefore it boils and throbs
all over, and exactly the same sensation which
is experienced by children when cutting their
teeth, a sensation of itching and soreness about
their gums, is experienced by the soul of one
who is beginning to put forth new wings ; it
boils and is sore and tingles as it shoots its
feathers. Whenever indeed by gazing on the
beauty of the beloved object, and receiving
from that beauty particles which fall and flow
in upon it (and which are therefore called
t/uepos, desire), the soul is watered and warmed,
it is relieved from its pain, and is glad ; but as
soon as it is parted from its love, and for lack
of that moisture is parched, the mouths of the
outlets, by which the feathers start, become so
closed up by drought, that they obstruct the
shooting germs ; and the germs being thus
confined underneath, in company of the desire
which has been infused, leap like throbbing

58 PH&DRUS

arteries, and prick each at the outlet which is
shut against it ; so that the soul, being stung
all over, is frantic with pain. But then again
it calls to mind the beautiful one, and rejoices.
And both these feelings being combined, it is
sore perplexed by the strangeness of its condi
tion, and not knowing what to do with itself
becomes frenzied, and in its frenzy can neither
sleep by night, nor by day remain at rest, but
runs to and fro with wistful look wherever it
may expect to see the possessor of the beauty.
: And after it has seen him, and drunk in fresh
streams of desire, it succeeds in opening the
stoppages which absence had made, and taking
breath it enjoys a respite from sting and throe,
and now again delights itself for the time being
in that most delicious pleasure. And therefore,
if it can help, it never quits the side of its
252 beloved, nor holds any one of more account
than him, but forgets mother, and brothers,
and friends, and though its substance be wasting
by neglect, it regards that as nothing, and of
all observances and decorums, on which it
prided itself once, it now thinks scorn, and
is ready to be a slave and lie down as closely
as may be allowed to the object of its yearnings ;
for, besides its reverence for the possessor of
beauty, it has found in him the sole physician
for its bitterest pains. Now this affection, my
beautiful boy you I mean to whom my speech
is addressed is called by mortals Eros (Love);
on hearing its name among the gods, your
young wit will naturally laugh. There are put

PH&DRUS 59

forth, if I mistake not, by certain Homerids,
out of their secret poems, two verses on Eros,
of which the second is quite outrageous, and
not at all particularly metrical. Thus they
sing:

Him mortals indeed call winged Eros,

But immortals Pteros (Flyer), for his flighty nature.

Now these verses you may believe or not
believe, as you think proper ; but whatever is
thought of them the cause of love, and the
condition of lovers, is all the same, just such
as has been here stated.

Now, if it be one of the former followers of
Zeus who is seized by love, he is able to bear in
greater weight than others the burden of the
wing- named god. But all who were in the
service of Ares, and patrolled the heavens in
his company, when they are taken captive by
Love, and fancy themselves in aught injured
by the object of their love, are thirsty of blood,
and ready to immolate both themselves and
their favourites. And so it is with the follower
of the other gods. Every man spends his life
in honouring and imitating to the best of his
power that particular god of whose choir he
was a member, so long as he is exempt from
decay, and living his first generation here ; and
in keeping with the bent thus acquired, he con
ducts his intercourse and behaviour towards
the beloved object, as well as all the world.
Accordingly, each man chooses himself his
love out of the ranks of beauty to suit his

60 PHMDRUS

peculiar turn ; and then, as though his choice
were his god, he builds him up for himself, and
attires him like a holy image, for the purpose
of doing him reverence, and worshipping him
with ecstatic festival. They then that belong
to Zeus seek to have for their beloved one who
resembles Zeus in his soul. And so they look
for a youth who is by nature a lover of wisdom,
and fitted for command ; and when they have
found one, and become enamoured of him,
they strive all they can to make him truly such.
And if they have never previously entered upon
this task, they now apply themselves to it, both
seeking instruction from every possible quarter,
and searching in their own souls. And this
endeavour to discover the nature of their patron
253 d> by following the track in themselves, is
attended with success, by reason of their being
ever constrained to gaze upon their god un
flinchingly ; and when they grasp him with
their memory, they are inspired with his
inspiration, and take from him their character
and habits, so far as it is possible for man to
partake of god. And attributing these bless
ings to their beloved, they love him still more
dearly than ever ; and whatever streams they
may have drawn from Zeus, like the inspired
draughts of the Bacchanals, they pour into
their darling s soul, thereby making him re
semble, as far as possible, the god whom
they resemble themselves. Those again who
followed in the train of Hera, search out a
youth of kingly mould, and when he is found,

PHMDRUS 61

act towards him in exactly the same manner
as the former. And so it is with the adherents
of Apollo, and all other gods. Walking
themselves in the steps of their own proper
god, they look for the youth whom they are to
love to be of kindred nature ; and when they
have gained such an one, both by imitation
on their own part, and by urging and attuning
the soul of their beloved, they guide him into
the particular pursuit and character of that
god, so far as they are severally able, not
treating him with jealous or illiberal harshness,
but using every endeavour to bring him into
all possible conformity with themselves and
the god whom they adore. So beautiful is the
desire of those who truly love ; and if they
accomplish their desire, so beautiful is the
initiation, as I call it, into their holy mystery,
and so fraught with blessing at the hand of the
friend, whom love has maddened, to the object
of the friendship, if he be but won. Now he
who is won, is won in the following manner.

As at the commencement of this account 1
divided every soul into three parts, two of them
resembling horses, and the third a charioteer,
so let us here still keep to that division. Now
of the horses one, if you remember, we said,
was good, and the other bad ; but wherein
consists the goodness of the one, and the
badness of the other, is a point which, not
distinguished then, must be stated now. That
horse of the two which occupies the nobler
rank, is in form erect and firmly knit, high-

62 PH&DRUS

necked, hook-nosed, white-coloured, black-eyed;
he loves honour with temperance and modesty,
and, a votary of genuine glory, he is driven
without stroke of the whip by voice and reason
alone. The bad horse, on the other hand, is
crooked, bulky, clumsily put together, with
thick neck, short throat, flat face, black coat,
gray and bloodshot eyes, a friend to all riot
and insolence, shaggy about the ears, dull of
hearing, scarce yielding to lash and goad
united. Whenever therefore the driver sees
the sight which inspires love, and his whole
soul being thoroughly heated by sense, is sur
charged with irritation and the stings of desire,
the obedient horse, yielding then as ever to the
254 check of shame, restrains himself from spring
ing on the loved one ; but the other pays heed
no longer to his driver s goad or lash, but
struggles on with unruly bounds, and doing all
violence to his yoke-fellow and master, forces
them to approach the beautiful youth, and
bethink themselves of the joys of dalliance.
And though at first they resist him with
indignation at the lawless and fearful crime he
is urging, yet at last, when there, is no end to
the evil, they move onward as he leads them,
having yielded him submission and agreed to
do his bidding. So they come up to the
beautiful boy, and see his face all gleaming
with beauty. But at the sight the driver s
memory is carried back to the essence of
beauty, and again he sees her by the side of
Continence standing on a holy pedestal. And

PHsEDRUS 63

at the sight he shudders, and with a holy awe
falls backward to the ground, and falling
cannot help pulling back the reins so violently
that he brings both the horses on their
haunches, the one indeed willingly, because he
is not resisting, but the rebel in spite of
struggling. And when they are withdrawn to
some distance, the former in his shame and
ravishment drenches all the soul with sweat ;
but the other, when he is recovered from the
pain which the bit and the fall inflicted, and
has with difficulty regained his breath, breaks
out into passionate revilings, vehemently rail
ing at his master and his comrade for their
treacherous cowardice in deserting their ranks
and agreement. And again he urges them,
again refusing, to approach, and barely yields
a reluctant consent when they beg to defer the
attempt to another time. But soon as the
covenanted time is come, though they affect
forgetfulness, he reminds them of their engage
ment, and plunging and neighing and dragging,
he again obliges them to approach the beautiful
youth to make the same proposals. And when
they are near, he stoops his head and gets the
bit between his teeth, and drags them on
incontinently. But the driver experiences,
though still more strongly, the same sensation
as at first ; backward he falls like racers at the
barrier, and with a wrench still more violent
than before pulls back the bit from between
the teeth of the riotous horse, thereby drench
ing his jaws and railing tongue with blood :

64 PHALDRUS

and bruising against the ground his legs and
haunches, consigns him to anguish. But as
soon as by this treatment oft repeated the evil
horse is recovered from his vice, he follows
with humbled steps the guidance of his driver,
and at sight of the fair one is consumed with
terror. So that then, and not till then, does it
happen that the soul of the lover follows his
beloved with reverence and awe. And the
255 consequence is, that the youth being now
worshipped with all the worship of a god by a
lover who does not feign the passion, but feels
it in his soul, and being himself by nature
fondly inclined to his worshipper, even though
haply in time past he may have been set
against lovers by the remarks of his school
fellows or others on the scandal of allowing
their approaches, and is therefore disposed to
reject his present wooer, yet now that the latter
is thus changed he is led in course of time, by
the instinct of his years, and the law of destiny,
to admit him to familiarity. For surely it was
never destined for the bad to be friends of the
bad, or the good aught but friendly to the
good. But when the advances have been
accepted and speech and intercourse allowed,
the affection of the lover being brought into
near connection with the loved one, strikes him
with wonder, as it compels him to feel that the
friendship shown him by all the rest of his friends
and relations put together is as nothing beside
the love of his god-inspired friend. And if he
continues long thus to indulge him, and allows

PHsEDRUS 65

him the closest contact both in gymnastic
schools and other places of meeting, then it is
that the stream of that effluence, to which Zeus
when enamoured of Ganymedes gave the name
of desire, pours upon the lover in a plenteous
flood, and partly sinks within him, partly flows
off him when he is full ; and just as a wind or
a noise rebounds from smooth and hard sub
stances and is carried back again to the place
from which it came ; so the tide of beauty
passes back into the beautiful boy through his
eyes, the natural channel into his soul ; and
when it is come there and has fledged it anew,
it waters the outlets of the feathers, and forcing
them to shoot up afresh fills the soul of the
loved one as well as that of his lover with
love. He is in love therefore, but with whom
he cannot say ; nay, what it is that is come
over him he knows not, neither can he tell, but
like one who has caught a disease in the eye
from the diseased gaze of another, he can
assign no reason for the affection, but sees him
self in his lover, as in a glass, without knowing
who it is that he sees. And when they are to
gether, he enjoys the same respite that his
lover does from his anguish ; but when they are
parted, he yearns for him as he himself is
yearned for, since he holds in his bosom love s
reflected image, love returned. He calls it,
however, and believes it to be not love but
friendship, albeit, he feels the same desire as the
other does, though in a feebler degree, for the
sight, the touch, the kiss, the embrace. And con-
F

66 PH^EDRUS

sequently, as might be expected, his conduct
henceforward is as follows. When they are
lying side by side, the lover s unbridled horse
has much to say to its driver, and claims as
256 the recompense of many labours a short enjoy
ment ; but the vicious horse of the other has
nothing to say, but burning and restless clasps
the lover and kisses him as he would kiss a
dear friend, and when they are folded in each
other s embrace, is just of such a temper as
not for his part to refuse indulging the lover in
any pleasure he might request to enjoy ; but
his yoke-fellow, on the other hand, joins the
driver in struggling against him with chastity
and reason. Should it appear then that the
better part of their nature has succeeded in
bringing both the lover and loved into a life of
order and philosophy, and established its own
ascendency, in bliss and harmony they live out
their existence here, being masters of them
selves and decorous before the world, having
enslaved that portion of the soul wherein vice
is contained, and liberated that where virtue
dwells ; and at last when they come to die,
being winged and lightened, they have in one
of their three truly Olympic combats achieved
the prize, than which no greater good can
either human prudence or godly madness be
stow on man. But if they have given in to
a coarser habit of life, and one unfriendly to
wisdom, though not to honour, it may well
happen that in a moment of drunkenness or
like abandonment, those two unruly beasts will

rn.-EDRUs 67

surprise the souls off their guard, and bringing
them together into one place will choose and
consummate that practice which the world
deems happy, and once consummated will for
the future indulge in it, though sparingly, as
doing what is not approved by all their mind.
Dear, therefore, to each other, though not so
dear as the former two, do these continue both
while their love is burning and when it is ex
tinct ; for they conceive themselves to have
given and received the strongest pledges,
which it were impious at any time to violate
by becoming alienated. And in the end,
without their wings it is true, but not without
having started feathers, they go forth from the
body, so that they carry off no paltry prize for
their impassioned madness ; for there is a law
that the paths of darkness beneath the earth
shall never again be trodden by those who
have so much as set their foot on the heaven-
word road, but that walking hand in hand they
shall live a bright and blessed life, and when
they recover their wings^recover them together
for their love s sake.

So great and so godly, my beautiful boy, are
the blessings which the affection of a lover
will bestow. But the commerce of one who
does not love, being alloyed with mortal prud
ence, and dispensing only mortal and niggardly
gifts, will breed in the soul of the loved one a 257
sordidness which the vulgar laud as virtue, and
doom it for nine thousand years to be tossed about
the earth and under the earth without reason.

68 PHMDRUS

Here, to thee, beloved Eros, fair and good as
I can make it, I offer and duly pay a recant
ation, composed perforce for sake of Phsedrus,
both in phrase and other points, in a poetic
strain. But oh vouchsafe me pardon for my
former speech and indulgence for this, and of
thy tender mercy neither take from me the art
of love, which thou hast given me, nor cripple
it in thy wrath, but grant that still more than
ever I may find favour in the eyes of the fair.
And, if in our former speech, Phaedrus and I
said aught offensive to thee, set it to the
account of Lysias as the father of the speech,
and make him to cease from speeches of this sort,
and turn him to philosophy, even as his brother
Polemarchus is turned, in order that his lover
also here before thee may no longer halt, as
now, between two opinions, but heart and soul
devote his life to love with philosophic talk.

Ph. I join with you, Socrates, in praying
that, if this lot be better for us, so it may be
fall us. With regard to the speech, however,
it has been long exciting my admiration, so
much more beautiful have you made it than
your former one ; so much more indeed that I
am afraid I shall find Lysias making but a poor
figure, if indeed he be willing to match it with
another of his own. Which I have my doubts
about. For it was only the other day that one
of our public men in an attack he was making
upon him, reproached him on this very score,
and throughout his attack kept calling him a
speech-writer. So that perhaps he may be led

PHsEDRUS 69

by a care for his own reputation to desist from
the practice.

Soc. Your notion is an absurd one, my
young gentleman, and you are greatly mistaken
in your favourite, if you imagine him to be a
person so readily scared. Perhaps too you
believe that his assailant meant what he said.

Ph. He certainly seemed to do so, Socrates ;
and besides, you must know as well as I do,
that men of the greatest influence and con
sideration in a state are ashamed of writing
speeches, and leaving behind them compositions
of their own, for fear of obtaining with posterity
the reputation and name of sophists.

Soc. It has escaped you, Phaedrus, that the
phrase * A charming bend, is derived from
that long and wearisome bend in the Nile ;
and so it escapes you that under this affected
dislike, our most self-satisfied statesmen are
especially fond of composing speeches, and
leaving behind them writings ; so much so in
deed, that whenever they write a speech, they
conceive such an affection for its supporters,
that they write down in an additional clause at
its head the names of those who on each
occasion accord it their approval.

Ph. Howdoyoumean? I don tunderstandyon.

Soc. Don t you understand that at the be
ginning of a statesman s writing the name of 258
its supporter is written first ?

Ph. How so ?

Soc. Approved. Thus, if I am not mis
taken, runs the writing: Approved by the

7 o PH&DRUS

council, or people, or both. And the proposer,
our speech-writer to wit, naming his worthy
self with all pomp and panegyric, proceeds to
make a speech, and to show off his wisdom to
his supporters, not unfrequently by the com
position of a very long writing. Or, do you
conceive such a production as this to be some
thing different from a written speech ?

Ph. No, certainly I don t.

Soc. Well, if the speech stands, our poet
goes home from his theatre rejoicing ; but if it
be erased, and he debarred from speech-writing,
and the dignity of authorship, he goes into
mourning, himself and his friends.

Ph. So they do.

Soc. Obviously not as disdaining the practice,
but as viewing it with admiration.

Ph. Precisely.

Soc. Again, whenever an orator or a mon
arch has been found equal to the task of
assuming the authority of a Lycurgus, or a
Solon, or a Darius, and becoming a speech-
writer for immortality in a state, does not both
he himself, during his lifetime, look upon him
self in the light of a god, and do not after ages
conceive the same opinion of him, from a sur
vey of his written works ?

Ph. To be sure they do.

Soc. Do you believe then that a person of
this sort, however strong his antipathy to
Lysias, would attack him simply on the score
of being a writer ?

Ph. It is not at any rate to be expected that

PH.-EDRUS 71

he would from what you say ; for in so doing
he would to all appearance be attacking his
own particular fancy.

Soc. It must then, I think, be universally
acknowledged, that there is no disgrace in the
mere fact of writing speeches.

Ph. How can there be ?

Soc. But the disgrace, I imagine, commences
when they are composed not well, but awk
wardly and ill.

Ph. Obviously.

Soc. What then is the character of good and
bad writing ? Ought we, think you, Phzedrus,
to take on this matter the evidence of Lysias,
and of every one else who has either written or
means to write a work, political or otherwise,
either in metre as a poet, or without metre as a
prose-writer ?

Ph. Do you ask if we ought ? Why what
other object can a man be said to live for,
than the enjoyment of such pleasures as these ?
Surely not for those which must be preceded
by pain, before they can be so much as en
joyed, which is the case you know with most
of our bodily pleasures, so that they have been
justly denominated servile.

Soc. Well, we have time it seems to spare ;
and moreover I cannot help fancying that the
cicalas, while chirping and talking together over
our heads, as is their wont in the heat of the
day, have their eyes upon you and me. Should 259
they see us then, like common men, falling
asleep instead of conversing in the middle of

72 PH&DRUS

the day, and abandoning ourselves in laziness of
soul to their lulling music, they would regard
us with merited scorn, and fancy themselves
looking upon some poor slaves, who had
sought the refuge of their retreat, to take like
sheep a mid -day nap by the waters of their
well. But if they see us proceeding with our
conversation, and sailing past them unenchanted
by their siren strains, they may perhaps in
their admiration confer on us that boon, which
they have from the gods to bestow upon men.

Ph. What boon is that ? I do not remem
ber to have heard of it.

Soc. A lover of the Muses is the last person
who should be ignorant of such matters as this.
The story goes, that once upon a time these
cicalas were men, of a race that lived before
the birth of the Muses. But when the Muses
were born, and song appeared, it came to pass
that some of that race were so transported with
pleasure, that as they sang they forgot to eat
and drink, till death came upon them unawares.
From them it is that the race of the cicalas are
sprung, having received the boon from the
Muses, that they should need no nourishment
after they were come into the world, but spend
their time in singing, without food or drink,
from the moment of their birth to the day of
their death, when they are to repair to the
Muses, and tell each of them of their wor
shippers here below. Terpsichore they tell of
those who have honoured her in the dance,
and thus make them dearer to her than before :

PHsEDRUS 73

Erato they tell of her votaries in love, and so
to each of the other sisters they make their
report according to the character of her proper
worship. But to Calliope the eldest, and
Urania the second of the nine, they bear tidings
of those who pass their lives in philosophic
study and observance of their peculiar music,
these we know being the Muses who, having
heaven for their special sphere, and words both
divine and human, pour forth the gladdest
strains. You see therefore, Phoedrus, there
are many reasons why we should talk and not
slumber in the middle of the day.
Ph. Indeed there are.

Soc. Let us then, resuming the subject which
we proposed to ourselves for consideration,
examine in what consists a good or a bad
discourse, whether spoken or written.
Ph. Certainly.

Soc. Is it not an essential condition of a
good and fine speech being made, that the
mind of the speaker be acquainted with the
truth of the matter he is going to discuss ?

Ph. Why, I have heard men say on this
subject, Socrates, that there is no need at all
for the intended orator to learn what is really 260 r
just, but only what is likely to be considered \f
just by the multitude who are to sit as judges ;
nor, again, what is really good and honourable,
but only what will appear so ; for by such
appearances, they add, is persuasion effected,
and not by truth.

Soc. Sure we must not cast away a saying,

74 PH/EDRUS

Ph^edrus, which wise men have uttered, but
rather examine whether there be anything in it
or not. And so we must not refuse a hearing
to your present remark.

Ph. Certainly not.

Soc. Let us consider it then in the following
point of view. Suppose I were to set about
persuading you to buy a horse for the purposes
of war, but neither of us knew what a horse
was ; only this much I did happen to know,
that my friend Phaedrus believed a horse to be
that domestic animal which has the longest ears.

Ph. Why, it would be absurd, Socrates.

Soc. Wait a moment. What if I were to
proceed in a tone of serious persuasion, and
compose a panegyric on the ass, all the while
calling him a horse, and saying that he was a
creature of infinite value, not only for domestic
purposes, but also on military service, as he
was both convenient to fight from, and capable
of bringing up baggage, and of being made
useful in a thousand other ways ?

Ph. Well, there can be no doubt of its being
utterly absurd now, at any rate.

Soc. Is it not better though to. be absurd,
than a dangerous and malevolent friend ?

Ph. Doubtless it is.

Soc. Whenever then an orator, who is ignor
ant of good and evil, finds a people in a state
of similar ignorance, and takes upon himself to
persuade them by passing an eulogium, not
upon a poor ass as though it were a horse, but
upon evil as though it were good ; and when,

PHsEDRUS 75

by having studied and learned the popular
opinions, he has succeeded in persuading them
to do that which is evil instead of that which is
good, what kind of fruit do you imagine his
oratory will hereafter reap as the harvest of the
seed she has sown ?

Ph. No very good one, certainly.
Soc. Is it not possible though, my good
Pruedrus, that we have been somewhat too
rough in our attack on rhetoric ? may she not
turn upon us and say, What s all this trifling,
ye wondrous wise ? I force no man to learn
speaking without a knowledge of the truth ; on
the contrary, if my advice be worth anything,
he will acquire the truth before he comes to
me. But what I do insist on is this, that with
out my aid he will not be a whit the better
able, for all his knowledge of truth, to persuade
according to art.

Ph. And do not you admit the justice of her
plea ?

Soc. I do, provided only the arguments
which are coming up to attack her testify to
her being an art. For methinks I hear the /
rustle of certain arguments approaching, and
protesting that she is an impostor, and no art
at all, but an inartistic knack. But of speaking,
says the Spartan, there neither is, nor ever
shall be, genuine art without the grasp of truth.
Ph. We must have your arguments, Socrates ;
bring them here into court, and examine what 261
it is they say, and how they say it.

Soc. Hither then, fine creatures, and persuade

J

76 PH&DRUS

Phoedrus, father of a fair progeny like you, that
if he be not a competent philosopher, neither at
any time will he be a competent speaker on
any subject at all. And let Phaedrus reply.

Ph. Put your questions.

Soc. May not rhetoric in general be con
sidered as a method of winning men s souls by
means of words, not only in courts of law, and
other public assemblies, but also in private
conversation indifferently on matters great and
small ; and is not its correct use held in equal
honour whether the subject to which it is
applied be trivial or important ? Or what have
you heard say on the matter ?

Ph. Why nothing at all of this kind, I can
assure you. No, the courts of law are the
especial sphere of rhetorical art, and it is also
employed in addressing deliberative assemblies ;
but I never heard of its extending further.

Soc. What, have you only heard of the arts
of speaking composed by Nestor and Ulysses,
to while away their leisure before Troy ? and
have you never heard of those by Palamedes ?

Ph. No, nor of Nestor s either, unless you
are making a Nestor of Gorgias, and a Ulysses
of Thrasymachus or Theodorus.

Soc. Possibly I am. However, to leave
these gentlemen for the present, answer me
this. In a court of justice, what is it that the
contending parties do ? Contradict each other,
do they not ?

Ph. Precisely.

Soc. On points of right and wrong ?

PHsEDRUS 77

/ //. Yes.

Soc. And if a man does this by rule of art,
he will make the same thing appear to the v
same people to be at one time right, and at
another, if he pleases, wrong.

Ph. Of course.

Soc. And so in a popular harangue he will
make the public believe the same line of con
duct to be at one time for their advantage, and
at another time just the reverse.

Ph. Certainly he will.

Soc. But do we not also hear of the Eleatic
Palamedes speaking by aid of art in such a
manner that his hearers believed the same
things to be at once like and unlike, one and
many, at rest and in motion ?

Ph. Undoubtedly we do.

Soc. It appears, then, that the art of debate
is not confined either to courts of law or popular
assemblies, but that to everything that is said
we are able to apply this single art, if art it is,
by which we shall be enabled to make all things /
appear similar that are capable of so appearing,
and to drag to the light all such attempts in
others, however dexterously concealed.

Ph. I don t quite understand what you mean
by this.

Soc. My meaning will, I thiiiK, be apparent,
if we conduct our inquiry thus. Is deception
more generally practised in things which differ 262
much or little ?

/ //. In those which differ little.

Soc. And you will get round, I conceive,

7 8 PH&DRUS

from one side to the other, with less chance of
detection, by taking short steps than long ones.

Ph. Unquestionably.

Soc. If one man, then, would fain deceive
another, without being deceived himself, he
ought to be able to discriminate accurately the
resemblances and differences of things.

Ph. Nay, he must be able.

Soc. But if he be ignorant of the true nature
of a particular, thing, will he be in a condition
to distinguish between a greater and less re
semblance to it in other things ?

Ph. Impossible.

Soc. Whenever, therefore, people are de
ceived, and form opinions wide of the truth,
it is clear that the error has slid into their
minds through the medium of certain resem
blances to that truth.

Ph. Such no doubt is generally the case.

Soc. Is it possible, then, for a man ever to
possess the art of bringing over the mind of
another from truth to falsehood, by leading it
from link to link in the chain of resemblances,
or to escape such delusion himself, without
having first arrived at an understanding of the
true nature of each particular thing ?

Ph. No, never.

Soc. An art of speaking then, composed by

one, who, without a knowledge of the truth,

has entrapped men s opinions, will present, I

conceive, but a sorry and inartistic appearance.

., Ph. I apprehend so.

Soc. Now, Phasdrus, what say you to our

PHJZDRUS 79

taking the speech of Lysias, which you have
got in your hand, together with those of mine
which followed, and looking for instances in
them of what we maintain to be in accordance
with, or in violation of, art ?

/ //. I should like it of all things ; since there
is a sort of baldness in our present way of
treating the subject, arising from a want of
proper examples.

Soc. True, and by some lucky chance, as I
take it, both the speeches were made to afford
an example of the manner in which an author,
who is himself acquainted with the truth, may
for mere amusement lead his hearers away
from it in discourse. And for my part, Phae-
drus, I set this to the account of the deities of
the spot ; or it may be that the ministers of the
Muses, our songsters overhead, have breathed
into us this happy gift. For sure I am that I
at least am innocent of any art of speaking.

Ph. Be it as you will only make your
meaning clear.

Soc. Well, then, read me out the beginning
of Lysias s speech.

Ph. With the state of my affairs you are
acquainted, and how I expect advantage to us
both from this arrangement you have heard.
Now I claim not to be disappointed in my suit
on the ground of my not happening to be your
lover. For lovers repent.

Soc. Stop we are to notice, are we not, any
error or violation of art that our author commits ? 263

Ph. We are.

8o P

Soc. Well, then, is it not obvious to all the
world, that on certain points of this kind we
are all agreed, on others all at variance ?

Ph. I think I know what you mean ; but
explain yourself more clearly.

Soc. When a man uses the words iron or silver,
do we not all understand by them the same things ?

Ph. To be sure we do.

Soc. But what happens when he talks of
justice or virtue ? Do we not all start off at
once in different directions, and quarrel both
with one another and ourselves ?

Ph. Too true.

Soc. On some things, then, you allow we are
agreed, in others not ?

Ph. Just so.

Soc. Now in which of these two classes of
things is deception more easily practised ; and
in which has rhetoric greater power ?

Ph. Clearly in that in which we are liable to
go wrong.

Soc. Before handling, then, an art of rhe
toric, a man ought in the first instance to have
methodically distinguished between these two
classes, and discovered some characteristic
mark of each, of that in which men in general
are of necessity in error, and of that where no
such necessity exists.

Ph. A fine generalisation certainly, Socrates,
would he have devised who had seized on this
distinction.

Soc. And secondly, I imagine, when he
comes to any particular case, he must not be

PH&DRUS 8 1

at fault, but perceive with rapidity in which of
the two classes the subject of his intended re
marks is contained.
/ //. Exactly.

Soc. Now what do you say to Love ? Are
we to rank him in the debatable, or certain class?
Ph. In the debatable, without a doubt.
For how else do you think he would have
allowed you to say all that you have just now
said about him, making him out at one time to
be a curse both to the lover and his favourite ;
and then again their chiefest blessing ?

Soc. Admirably said : but tell me this too
for I, you must know, was in such an ecstatic
state, that I do not quite remember did I
give a definition of Love at the beginning o
my speech ?

Ph. Ay, that you did, and a wonderfully
thorough one too.

Soc. Alas for Lysias, son of Cephalus !
far less skilled do you make him in the art
of speech-writing than the nymphs of our river
and Pan the son of Hermes ; or am I altogether
wrong, and did Lysias also, at the commence
ment of his love -speech, compel us to form
some one definite conception of love the con
ception that he himself preferred and then
proceed, in strict accordance with this concep
tion, to arrange all the subsequent parts of his
discourse till he brought it to a fitting conclusion ?
Just let us read the opening sentence again.

Ph. I will if you wish it, though what you
are looking for is not there.
G

82 PH^ZDRUS

Soc. Let us hear it, that we may take his
own evidence on the point.

Ph. l With the state of my affairs you are
acquainted, and that I expect advantage to us
264 both from this arrangement, you have heard.
Now I claim not to be disappointed in my suit
on the ground of my not belonging to the
number of your lovers ; for they, indeed, repent
of the benefits they have conferred as soon as
they are released from their passion.

Soc. Yes, we seem to be far indeed from
discovering here what we are looking for, when
we find our author not even starting from the
beginning, but from the end of his subject, and
essaying to get through his discourse like a
swimmer on his back the wrong way foremost;
for you see he commences with what the lover
might be supposed to say to his favourite at the
end, and not before the end, of his address. Or
do you see nothing in my objection, Phoedrus,
noble friend ?

Ph. Yes, I must confess, Socrates, that what
he is talking about is a natural conclusion of
the subject.

Soc. And what do you say to the rest ? Do
not the several parts of his discourse appear to
have been thrown together at random ? or do
you see some necessity for the second sentence
occupying the second place, or any other sen
tence appearing in the position he has assigned
it ? For my part, I must confess that he seems
to me, in my ignoranc e, to have put down on
paper, with a gentlemanly independence, what-

83

ever came first into his head ; but you, perhaps,
are aware of some law of composition which
guided his sentences into that particular order.
Ph. You are too good to suppose me capable
of seeing through the design of a Lysias with
so critical an eye.

Soc. But this I think you will allow, that
every speech ought to be put together like a
living creature, with a body of its own, lacking
neither head nor foot, but having both a middle
and extremities in perfect keeping with one
another and the whole.
Ph. Undoubtedly.

Soc. Examine, then, whether your friend s
speech be composed on this principle or not,
and you will find it just like the epigram which
people say is inscribed on the tomb of Midas,
the Phrygian.

Ph. What is the epigram, and what is there
peculiar about it ?
Soc. It runs thus :
I am a maiden of brass, and I lie upon Midas s

tomb :
Ever while water shall flow, and the trees of the

forest shall bloom,
Here will I stay on a grave that is watered with

many a tear,

Telling to all who pass by me that Midas is sepul
chred here.

Now, that it is utterly immaterial whether any
line of this epigram be put first or last, you
must, I should think, have observed.

Ph. You make very merry with our speech,
Socrates.

84 PHsEDRUS

Soc. Well, Phcedrus, to spare your feelings,
suppose we pass it by ; not but that I conceive
it to contain a crowd of examples, which a man
might study with advantage to himself, pro
vided only he does not at all attempt to imitate
them; and let us proceed to the other two
speeches, for there was something in them, I
265 imagine, well worthy the attention of those who
wish to consider the subject of speaking.

Ph. What sort of thing do you mean ?

Soc. If I remember right, they were opposed
to each other ; the one supporting the claims of
the impassioned ; and the other, those of the
unimpassioned suitor.

Ph. And right manfully they did their work.

Soc. I thought you were going to say, as the
truth would warrant, right madly. However,
this is the very point I was in quest of. We
said that love was a madness, did we not ?

Ph. We did.

Soc. And that madness was of two kinds,
the one produced by human disease, the other
by an inspired departure from established
usages.

Ph. Exactly.

Soc. And the inspired we divided into
four parts, and distributing them among four
heavenly powers, we set down the madness of
prophecy to the inspiration of Apollo ; of mys
teries, to the inspiration of Dionysus ; to the
Muses again we ascribed the madness of poesy ;
and the fourth, to Aphrodite and Eros. And this
last, the madness of love, we said was the best

PHJEDRUS 8 S

of all the four ; and expressing the affection of
love by a strange kind of similitude, wherein we
kept, I doubt not, some true principle in our
sight, though haply we swerved into error on
our path, we compounded a discourse not alto
gether without plausibility, and sang a mythic
hymn in seemly and pious adoration of my lord
and thine, Phasdrus of Eros, the patron o
beautiful boys.

Ph. And one, I can assure you, whicl
afforded me no slight pleasure to hear.

Soc Let us now, by an examination of 1
speech itself, discover how it was that it found
means of passing from censure to praise.
Ph. Well, and how was it ?
Soc. You must know that I consider
speech itself, in its general character, to be
nothing more than a sportive effusion; 1
throughout all that was thus casually uttered,
there are two forms of method apparent whicl
would well repay our attention, if we could but
obtain a systematic view of their respective
efficiency.

Ph. What are they, pray ?
Soc. The first consists in comprehending at
a glance, whenever a subject is proposed, a 1
the widely scattered particulars connected witl
it, and bringing them together under one general
idea, in order that, by a precise definition, we
may make every one understand what i s that
at the time we are intending to discuss Anc
this plan we just now, as you remember, adopte
with regard to love : we defined its nature ;

86 PH.1LDRUS

and whatever be the merit of the performance,
certain it is that to that definition my speech
owes its clearness and consistency.

Ph. And what is your other method, So
crates ?

Soc. That, on the other hand, enables us to
separate a general idea into its subordinate
elements, by dividing it at the joints, as nature
directs, and not attempting to break any limb
in half, after the fashion of a bungling carver.
And this plan was followed in my two speeches
with regard to mental derangement. Just as
266 from one body there proceed two sets of mem
bers, called by the same name, but distinguished
as right and left, so when my speeches had
formed the general conception of mental de
rangement, as constituting by nature one class
within us, the speech which had to divide the
left-hand portion desisted not from dividing it
into smaller, and again smaller parts, till it
found among them a kind of left-handed love,
which it railed at with well-deserved severity ;
while the other led us to the right-hand side of
madness, where it discovered a love bearing
indeed the same name as the former, but of an
opposite and a godly sort, which it held up to
be gazed at and lauded as the author of our
greatest blessings.

Ph. Perfectly true.

Soc. Now, not only do I pursue myself, with
all a lover s assiduity, these methods of decom
posing and combining, but if ever I find any
one else whom I judge capable of apprehending

PHsEDRUS 87

the one and the many as they are in nature,
that man I follow behind, as though in the
track of a god. And to all who are possessed
of this power I have been in the habit of
giving, whether rightly or wrongly, heaven
knows, the name of dialecticians. But tell
me, what is the proper name for the disciples
of your school and Lysias s ? is yours that
identical art of words by the use of which
Thrasymachus and his compeers have not only
become clever speakers themselves, but make
such of all their pupils, who are willing to bring
them presents, as though they were kings ?

Ph. And men of kingly mould they are,
though certainly not acquainted with that about
which you are now inquiring. However, you
appear to me to be quite right in calling this
kind of method dialectical ; but the rhetorical,
I take it, still eludes our grasp.

Soc. Indeed ! a fine thing truly that must be
which, not comprised in this, is yet apprehended
by art. On no account must it be slighted by
you and me come now, let us consider what
it is that is left to rhetoric.

Ph. Oh, you ll find plenty of it, I doubt not,
Socrates, if you ll only look in the books written
on the art of speech-making.

Soc. True, and I am obliged to you for re
minding me. We must have, in the first place,
I think, an exordium delivered at the opening
of the speech. This is what you mean is it
not ? the refinements of the art ?
Ph. Yes.

88 PH^EDRUS

Soc. And next we must have narration, they
say, and evidence to back it, and thirdly proofs,
and fourthly probabilities ; and there s con
firmation, if I remember right, and after -con
firmation to boot, according to that prime tricker-
out of speeches who comes from Byzantium.

Ph. Worthy Theodorus, eh?

Soc. Exactly. He gives us rules too for
267 refutation and after-refutation, both in charge
and defence. But the Parian wonder, Evenus,
we must not leave in the background, who was
the first to discover sub - intimation and by-
panegyric; nay, they tell me he repeats his
by-censures in verse, to aid the memory. So
clever is he. Can we pass over in silence

/either Tisias and Gorgias, who were enabled to
see that the probable ought to be more highly
prized than the true; who make small things
appear great, and great things small, by force
of words ; who talk of what is new as though it
were old, and of what is old as though it were
new ; and who have invented for every subject
a terse brevity and illimitable prolixity ? Once
though, when I told Prodicus of this, he burst
out a-laughing, and said that none. but himself
had discovered what kind of speeches were
required by art. We must have them, says
he, neither long nor short, but of moderate
length.

Ph. Cleverly said, Prodicus.

Soc. But we must not forget Hippias ; for I
fancy our friend from Elis would be on the
same side with him of Ceos.

PHsEDRUS 89

/ //. Doubtless.

Soc. But where shall we find words f<
Polus s museum of ornaments his jingle-mak
ing, maxim-making, image-making, and all the
pretty expressions which he borrowed from
his master Licymnius, to create a harmonious

diction ?

Ph. Was not this though, Socrates, some
thing in the style of Protagoras ?

Soc. A correctness of diction, young sir, was
what he taught, and a great many other fine
things too. But in the art of dragging i
piteous whinings on poverty and age, there
never was, I believe, such a master as the hero
of Chalcedon. He was a terrible man, too for
rousing the passions of a crowd, and lulling
them again when roused, by the magic of his
song, as he used to say ; and at raising c
rebutting a calumny on any ground whatsoever,
he was eminently expert. To come, however
to the conclusion of the speech, that is, I
imagine, a point on which all men are agreed,
though some call it recapitulation, and .
by some different title.

Ph You mean, the summarily reminding t
hearers at the end of the speech of all that has
been said in the course of it.

Soc. Yes ; and now have you anything e
to tell me about the art of speaking ?

Ph. Only a few trifling matters not wor
mentioning.

Soc. Well, if they are trifling, let us pass
them by, and rather hold up these we have got 268

90 PH&DRUS

to the light, that we may discern the character
and sphere of their efficiency in art.

Ph. There is no doubt of its being a very
powerful one, Socrates ; in popular assemblies,
at any rate.

Soc. None, I am aware ; but look at them,
my good sir, and see whether you do not
observe, as I do, some flaw in their texture.
Ph. Point it out, will you ?
Soc. Well, answer me this. Suppose a man
were to call upon your friend Eryximachus, or
his father Actimenus, and say, I know how to
make such applications to the body as will
create either heat or cold, as I please ; and if
I think proper, I can produce vomitings and
purgings, and a great variety of similar effects.
And, on the strength of this knowledge, I flatter
myself that I am a physician, and able to make
a physician of any one to whom I may com
municate the knowledge of these matters. What
do you think would be their answer on hearing
this ?

Ph. Why, they would, of course, ask him
whether he also knew to what objects, at what
times, and to what extent, these modes of treat
ment ought severally to be applied.

Soc. And if he were to answer, Oh, I know
nothing of the kind; but I expect that my
pupil will be able to act in all these matters for
himself, as soon as he has learnt the secrets I
mentioned.

Ph. Why then they would doubtless say.
The man is mad; he has been hearing some

PH&DRUS 91

book read, or he has fallen in with some
nostrum or other, and fancies himself in con
sequence a made physician, while in reality he
knows nothing at all about the art.

Soc. And what if a man were to go up to
Sophocles and Euripides, and tell them that he
knew how to make a very long harangue on a
small matter, and again, a very short harangue
on a great matter ; that he could write at will
in a pathetic or in a bold and menacing tone ;
that he possessed a variety of similar accom
plishments, and that by giving lessons in such
he conceived himself to be imparting the power
of writing tragedy ?

Ph. Well, they too, I imagine, Socrates,
would burst into a laugh at the notion of
tragedy being made up of these elements,
without regard being paid to their consistency
with one another and the whole in the com
bination.

Soc. True, but they would not, I conceive,
rail at him coarsely, but would rather adopt
the tone a musician would use on meeting with
a man who esteemed himself a harmonist, be
cause, as he said, he happened to know how to
draw from a chord the highest and lowest pos
sible notes. For the musician, I imagine, would
not fiercely say to such a person, You wretched
fellow, you are stark mad : but, with the gentle
ness that music inspires, would reply, It is
doubtless necessary, my excellent friend, for
these matters to be understood by the intended
harmonist, but there is nothing in the world to

necessary preli m in ar t s JTarmoT 3 "5 **
harmony itself. rmony, anc j not

Ph. And a very proper answer too

medicine itself. tO medlcin e, but not

Ph. Most assuredly

tAs.5

just now enuUr "d of d T h e Ce : n Which ^
"nage-makings, and all the " axlm - maki ngs,
which w maki " S f

rather make all

of this noianre fc

ignorance, have conceived them

93

selves inventors of an art of rhetoric because
they happen to possess the acquirements which
must of necessity precede the art ; and if, again,
they believe that by teaching these acquirements
to others they have imparted to them rhetoric
in perfection, while they say nothing about the
power of using each of them persuasively, or of
combining them into one general whole, but
leave it, as a trifling matter, to the pupils
themselves, to furnish, out of their own unaided
resources, in the speeches they may have to
compose.

Ph. Well, certainly, Socrates, I am afraid
that such is very much the character of the art
which these people teach both in lecture and
writing ; and I must confess I think you have
spoken the truth. But do now tell me by what
means, and from what source, we may acquire
the real art of rhetorical persuasion.

Soc. The power, Phrcdrus, of becoming a
consummate workman therein, is probably, or
I should rather say, is of necessity, subject to a
universal law. If you are endowed by nature
with a genius for speaking, you will be a dis
tinguished speaker, if you add thereto science
and practice ; but in whichever of these three
requisites you are wanting, you will by so much
fall short of perfection. However, for all of
it that is art, the true method will not, I think,
be found on the road whereon Tisias and
Thrasymachus are travelling.
Ph. On what road then ?
Soc. Pericles would seem, my good friend,

94 PHJKDRUS

not without reason, to have become the most
perfect orator that ever lived.

Ph. How so ?

Soc. All the higher arts require, over and
above their immediate discipline, a subtle and
speculative acquaintance with physical science ;
it being, I imagine, by some such door as this
27O that there enters that elevation of thought and
universal mastery over the subject in hand.
Now Pericles added these advantages to that
of great natural genius. For he fell into the
hands, if I mistake not, of Anaxagoras, a
teacher of such studies, and being by him
stored with abstruse speculation, and led to
penetrate into the nature of the intelligent and
unintelligent principle subjects which occupied,
you are aware, the main place in his master s
discourse he draughted from those researches
into the art of speaking the investigations suit
able for it.

Ph. How do you mean ?

Soc. The case, I imagine, is the same with
the art of rhetoric as it is with that of medicine.

Ph. In what way ?

Soc. In both it is necessary to investigate
nature ; the nature of the body in the one, and
of the soul in the other, if you intend to follow
a scientific principle, and not a mere empirical
routine, in the application of such medicine and
diet to the former as will produce in it health
and strength, and of such words and rightful
culture to the latter as will impart to it the de
sired persuasion and virtue.

PH.XDRUS 95

Ph. This seems reasonable at any rate,
Socrates.

Soc. Now, do you conceive it possible to
comprehend satisfactorily the nature of the soul
without comprehending the nature of the
universe ?

Ph. Why, if credit is to be given to Hippo
crates, of the line of ^sculapius, the nature of
the body even cannot be comprehended with
out this investigation.

Soc. He says well, Phaedrus. However, we
must not be content with the evidence of
Hippocrates, but, interrogating the argument
itself, observe if it be consistent.

Ph. True.

Soc. Observe, then, with regard to nature
what is maintained by Hippocrates and the
truth. Is it not thus that they bid us examine
into a thing s nature ? In the first place, we
are to inquire whether that is simple or mani
fold in which we wish to be scientifically pro
ficient ourselves, and able to render others such
also: secondly, if it be simple, we are to examine
what power it possesses by nature of acting,
and of acting upon what, or what susceptibility
of being acted upon, and what it is that acts
upon it ; if it comprise a number of kinds, we
are to enumerate these kinds, and observe with
regard to each of them, as in the simple case,
its properties, whether active or passive.

/ //. Yes, this seems to be the way, Socrates.
Soc. At any rate, the method which ne
glected these investigations would be no better

96 PHMDRUS

than a blind man s walk. But surely we must
never compare the scientific follower of any
pursuit to a blind or a deaf man. No; it is
evident that whosoever teaches speaking on
scientific principles, will accurately explain the
essential nature of that to which his pupil will
have to address his speeches. And this, if I
mistake not, will be the souh

Ph. Indisputably.

Soc. Against this then all his battle is directed;
271 for in this it is that he endeavours to effect
persuasion. Is it not so ?

Ph. Yes.

Soc. It is obvious, therefore, that Thrasy-
machus and every one else who seriously com
municates an art of rhetoric, will, in the first
place, with all accuracy notice and make
apparent whether the soul be single and
uniform by nature, or, like the body, of many
different kinds this being the process which
we maintain to be : revealing a nature.

Ph. Precisely.

Soc. Secondly, he will explain in what part
it is active, and upon what it acts ; in what
part passive, and by what it is acted upon.

Ph. To be sure he will.

Soc. And thirdly, when he has ranged in
order, the different kinds of speech and different
kinds of soul, and their different conditions, he
will enumerate all causes that act, and suiting"
kind by kind, will show what sort of soul is of
necessity persuaded, or not persuaded, by what
sort of speech, and for what reason, in either case.

PH.4LDRUS 97

Ph. At any rate, his work would to all
appearance be best done by this method.

Soc. Never, I can assure you, my friend,
will aught spoken or explained on a different
method be spoken or explained on a scientific
method, either in this case or any other. But
our modern authors, whom you wot of, of arts
of rhetoric, are crafty dissemblers, and manage
to keep out of view their exquisite insight into
the nature of the soul. Till, then, they both
speak and write in this manner, let us not
accord to them that they speak and write
scientifically.

Ph. What manner do you mean by this ?

Soc. To dictate the exact forms of expression
were no easy task ; but the general course that
a speaker ought to pursue, if he means to per
form his work as scientifically as possible, I am
prepared to explain.

Ph. Do so.

Soc. It being admitted that the efficacy of
speech is to win men s souls, it follows of
necessity that the intended speaker must be
acquainted with all kinds of soul that exist.
Now of these kinds there are a certain number,
each being of a certain sort ; whence result
different characters in different individuals. And
this division being established, there are again
a certain number of kinds of speeches, each of
a certain character. Persons, therefore, of a
certain character are by speeches of a certain
character easily persuaded for certain reasons
into certain things, while persons of a different
H

98 PH^DRUS

character are under the same circumstances
hard to be persuaded. These distinctions,
then, must be competently understood ; but
even when understood, our speaker must be
able to follow them rapidly with his perceptive
faculties, as they fall under his notice in the
course and operation of daily life, or as yet he
knows no more of his art than the mere speeches
he used to hear from his master at school. But
when he is in a condition to say what sort of
man is likely to be persuaded by what sort of
speech, and on meeting with an individual in
the world, is able to read his character at a
272 glance, and say to himself, Here is the man,
and here the nature, for which I heard those
speeches from my master, now actually present
before me ; him, therefore, I must address with
this sort of speech, in this sort of manner, if I
mean to persuade him to this sort of thing
when, I say, he is possessed of all this know
ledge, and has learnt, moreover, the proper
time for speaking, and the proper time for
being silent, and has further learnt to dis
tinguish between the seasonable and unseason
able use of the style sententious, the style
pathetic, the style indignant, and all your other
styles of speaking in which he has been in
structed, then, I maintain, and not till then, is
his art wrought into a beautiful and a perfect
work. But if he omit any of these requisites,
whether in writing, or teaching, or speaking,
while he professes to be performing his work
scientifically, the hearer who refuses to be

PH&DRUS 99

persuaded achieves a victory over him. But,
Phredrus, but, Socrates we shall doubtless
hear from our friend the treatise-writer is this
to be your sole art of speaking, or may we put
up with one conducted on somewhat different
principles ?

Ph. None other, I take it, Socrates, can
possibly be allowed, and yet this of yours
appears no slight undertaking.

Soc. True, Phasdrus, it is not slight. And
for this reason we ought to turn over all their
writings again and again, to see whether there
be found anywhere an easier and a briefer road
to the art, in order that we may not uselessly
travel on a long and rough one when we might
go by one both smooth and short. So if
you have ever heard of anything available for
our purpose, either from Lysias, or any other
teacher, make an effort to remember and tell
it me.

Ph. If the effort were sufficient, Socrates, I
should be able to do so ; as it is, I can remem
ber nothing at the moment.

Soc. What say you then to my repeating a
statement which I have heard from certain
gentlemen who handle the subject ?
Ph. I should like it of all things.
Soc. Well, the saying is, you know, Phae-
drus, that it s fair to state even the wolf s cause.
Ph. It is, and do you comply with it.
Soc. I will. They tell me there is no need
in the world to treat the matter so solemnly, or
to carry it back to so remote a source, by such

ioo PH&DRUS

long meanderings. For there is not the slightest
occasion this we also mentioned at the be
ginning of our argument for people, intending
to be competent speakers, to have anything at
all to do with the truth, about actions just or
good, or about men who are such either by
nature or education. For in courts of justice,
they say, no one troubles himself in the least
degree with the truth of these matters, but only
with what is plausible, that is to say, with what
is likely ; to this, therefore, you must give all
your attention if you mean to speak by rule of
art. Nay, there are occasions when you must
not even state facts as they have actually hap
pened, if the story be improbable, but only
such as are likely, whether in accusation or
defence. And, in short, in whatever you say,
it is the probable that you must chiefly aim at,
273 and pay no regard at all to the true. For the
observance of this, throughout your speech, will
supply you with the entire art.

Ph. Yes, Socrates, this is exactly the lan
guage employed by our professed masters in
the art of speaking. I remember, that in the
early part of our conversation, we did slightly
touch upon this sort of principle, and that this
is held to be of paramount importance by the
gentlemen of the profession.

Soc. Nay, Phaedrus, I m sure you have read
over and over again the great Tisias himself.
So let Tisias tell us in person whether he means
anything else by the probable, than what accords
with the opinion of the many.

10 1

Ph. What else can I ? answers Tisias.

Soc. On the strength then, I suppose, of this
sapient and scientific discovery, he proceeds to
announce, that if a weak, but courageous man,
is brought to trial for having knocked down
and robbed of his clothes, or purse, a strong
and cowardly one, neither accuser nor accused
is to tell the truth to the judges, but the coward
is to say that the other had assistance when he
knocked him down ; while the brave man must
first prove the fact of their being alone, and then
appealing to their favourite probable, exclaim,
Why, how could a man like myself have ever
thought of attacking a man like that ? But the
other, you may be sure, is not to plead his own
cowardice, but rather essay some fresh false
hood, which will, perhaps, supply his adversary
with the means of refuting the accusation. And
so, whatever be the matter on hand, this, he
says, is the style of pleading warranted by art.
Is it not so, Phcedrus ?

Ph. It is.

Soc. Recondite truly is the art, and wonderful
the skill of its inventor, be he Tisias, or who he
may, and whatever be the name he delights to
be called by. But, Phosdrus, shall we answer
him or not ?

Ph. With what ?

Soc. With this. Long before you joined our
conversation, Tisias, we chanced to observe,
that this vaunted probability of yours only made
itself felt in the minds of the many, by virtue
of its resemblance to the truth. And we have

102 PH&DRUS

since proved, that in all cases the various shades
of resemblance are best detected by the man
who is best acquainted with the truth in question.
So that, if you have anything else to say on the
art of speaking, we shall be delighted to hear
it ; if not, we will abide by our previous position,
that unless a speaker has reckoned up the
different natures of his hearers, and is able
both to separate things into their several kinds,
and embrace particulars under one general idea,
he will never reach that highest point of excel
lence in the art which is attainable by the power
of man. But this knowledge he can never
possibly acquire without great labour ; labour
which the wise man ought to bestow, not with
a view to speaking and acting before the world,
but for the sake of making himself able, both
by word and deed to please the gods as best
274 he can. For verily, Tisias, so speak wiser men
than you or I, it behoves not the reasonable
man to study pleasing fellow -bondsmen, save
only if he may in passing, but masters good,
and of good descent. If, therefore, our circuit
be a long one, marvel not ; for it is for the sake
of high ends that we have to make it, and not
for such as you conceive. Still, even yours, as
our argument proves, may be best attained, if
you choose to derive them from our source.

Ph. The ends you speak of, Socrates, are very

glorious, I know, if a man could but attain to them.

Soc. But surely, my friend, if the ends be

glorious, all that befalls us in seeking them

is glorious also.

PHJLDRUS 103

Ph. Indeed it is.

Soc. So far, then, as regards the scientific
and unscientific treatment of discourse : let this
suffice.

Ph. And well it may.

Soc. But the question of propriety and im
propriety in writing, and how to make a com
position graceful or inelegant, remains to be
considered. Does it not ?
Ph. Yes.

Soc. Are you aware, Prunedrus, by what con
duct or language, with respect to speaking, a
man will please God best ?
Ph. Not at all ; are you ?
Soc. At any rate I can tell you a story of
the ancients on the subject. Whether it be
true or not, they know themselves ; but if haply
we could find the truth, could we possibly,
think you, pay heed any longer to the opinions
of men ?

Ph. That would be indeed ridiculous : but
pray tell me the story you say you have heard.
Soc. Well, I heard that in the neighbour
hood of Naucratis, in Egypt, there lived one
of the ancient gods of that country ; the same
to whom that holy bird is consecrated which
they call, as you know, Ibis, and whose own
name was Theuth. He, they proceed, was
the first to invent numbers and arithmetic,
and geometry and astronomy ; draughts more
over, and dice, and, above all, letters. Now
the whole of Egypt was at that time under
the sway of the god Thamus, who resided

io 4 PHMDRUS

near the capital city of the upper region, which
the Greeks call Egyptian Thebes. The god
himself they call Ammon. To him, there
fore, Theuth repaired ; and, displaying his in
ventions, recommended their general diffusion
among the Egyptians. The king asked him
the use of each, and received his explanations,
as he thought them good or bad, with praise
or censure. Now on each of the arts Thamus
is reported to have said a great deal to Theuth,
both in its favour and disfavour. It would
take a long story to repeat it all. But when
they came to the letters, Theuth began : * This
invention, O king, will make the Egyptians
wiser, and better able to remember, it being a
medicine which I have discovered both for
memory and wisdom. The king replied :
Most ingenious Theuth, one man is capable
of giving birth to an art, another of estimating
275 the amount of good or harm it will do to those
who are intended to use it. And so now you,
as being the father of letters, have ascribed to
them, in your fondness, exactly the reverse of
their real effects. For this invention of yours
will produce forgetfulness in the niinds of those
who learn it, by causing them to neglect their
memory, inasmuch as, from their confidence in
writing, they will recollect by the external aid
of foreign symbols, and not by the internal use
of their own faculties. Your discovery, there
fore, is a medicine not for memory, but for re
collection, for recalling to, not for keeping in
mind. And you are providing for your disciples

FHsEDRUS 105

a show of wisdom without the reality. For,
acquiring by your means much information un
aided by instruction, they will appear to possess
much knowledge, while, in fact, they will, for
the most part, know nothing at all ; and, more
over, be disagreeable people to deal with, as
having become wise in their own conceit, in
stead of truly wise.

Ph. You possess a facility, Socrates, for
making up tales of Egypt, or any other strange
country you please.

Soc. We are told, my friend, that the voice
of an oak, in the holy ground of Zeus of Dodona,
was the first ever gifted with prophecy. The
men of those days, not being clever like you
moderns, were content, in their simplicity, to
listen to an oak or a stone, if only it spake
the truth. But to you, it seems, it makes a
difference who the speaker is, and from what
country he comes ; you do not merely consider
whether the fact be, or be not, as he states it.

Ph. Your reproof is just. And I believe
the truth, with regard to letters, to be as the
Theban pronounces.

Soc. He, therefore, who leaves behind him,
and he again who receives an art in writing,
with the idea that anything clear or fixed is to
proceed from the writing, must be altogether a
foolish-minded person, and, in truth, ignorant
of Ammon s prediction, as he must suppose that
written words can do something more than
recall the things of which they treat to the
mind of one who knows them already.

106 PH^DRUS

Most true.

Soc. For this, I conceive, Phasdrus, is the
evil of writing, and herein it closely resembles
painting. The creatures of the latter art stand
before you as if they were alive, but if you ask
them a question, they look very solemn, and
say not a word. And so it is with written dis
courses. You could fancy they speak as though
1 they were possessed of sense, but if you wish to
understand something they say, and question
them about it, you find them ever repeating
but one and the self-same story. Moreover,
every discourse, once written, is tossed about
from hand to hand, equally among those who
understand it, and those for whom it is in no
wise fitted ; and it does not know to whom it
ought, and to whom it ought not, to speak.
And when misunderstood and unjustly attacked,
it always needs its father to help it ; for, un
aided, it can neither retaliate, nor defend itself.

Ph. This again is most true.

Soc. But, hold ! Is there not another kind

276 of discourse, this one s legitimate brother ?

Let us see both how it arises, and how far

more excellent and efficient than the other it

grows.

Ph. What discourse do you mean, and how
does it take its rise ?

Soc. I mean that which is written with in
sight in the learner s mind, which is at once
able to defend itself, and knows before whom
to speak, and before whom to be silent.

Ph. You mean the wise man s discourse,

PHsEDRUS 107

which is possessed both of life and soul, and
of which the written one may fairly be called a
shadow.

Soc. Most assuredly I do. But come now,
answer me this. If a prudent husbandman had
seeds which he cared for, and wished to come
to fruit, would he seriously sow them in sum
mer-time, in the gardens of Adonis, and delight
to behold them growing up finely in eight clays i
or, if he did this at all, would he not do it as
the mere pastime of a holiday ; but, with all
the aid of his husbandman s art, sow the seeds,
on which he set serious store, in their proper
soil, and be content to see them in the eighth
month arrived at their maturity ?

Ph. Yes, of course, Socrates ; he would do
the one seriously, and the other, as you say,
by way of amusement.

Soc. And shall we say that he who has an
insight into the just, the beautiful, and the
good, shows less wisdom in the treatment of
his seeds than the husbandman ?
Ph. God forbid.

Soc. He will not then seriously set himself

to write them in water, sowing them with ink

by means of a pen, with the aid of words that

are unable to defend themselves by speaking,

and unable adequately to teach the truth.

Ph. Certainly, we may expect he will not.

Soc. Indeed we may. But in the gardens

of letters he will sow his seeds, I imagine, and

write, when he does write, for mere amusement,

treasuring up aids to the memory both for him-

108

self, when he comes to the years of forgetful
ness, and for all who are following on the same
road. And he will please himself with watch
ing his plants in their tender growth And
while others are indulging in other recreations
refreshing themselves it may be with feast and
kindred pleasure, he, if I mistake not will in
place of such amusements be spending his
holiday m the pastime I mention.

Ph. And a noble pastime it is, Socrates, by
the side of but a poor one, when a man who
can make discourses his play diverts himself
with telling stories about justice and virtue.

Soc. Yes, my dear Phaedrus, it is noble-
but far nobler, I imagine, is a man s work on
these matters, when finding a congenial soul
he avails himself of the dialectical art to sow
and plant therein scientific words, which are
277 competent to defend themselves, and him who
planted them, and are not unfruitful, but bear
seed in their turn, from which other words
springing up in other minds are capable of pre
serving this precious seed ever undecaying, and
making their possessor ever happy, so far as
happiness is possible for man.

Ph. Yes, Socrates, this is indeed far nobler
than the other.

Soc. Now then, Phasdrus, that this point is
settled, we are in a condition, you will observe,
to decide on our former questions.
Ph. Which do you mean ?
Soc. Those which led us in our desire to
solve them to the point where we are at present

PHsEDRUS 109

arrived ; one being to examine the desei vedness
of the reproach cast on Lysias for writing
speeches; the other, to discover, with regard
to speeches themselves, what were written
according to, and what without, rule of art.
Now this distinction appears to me to have
been marked with sufficient clearness.

Ph. And so it did to me ; but I should be
glad to be reminded of it again.

Soc. Before a speaker is acquainted with the
true nature of each subject on which he speaks
or writes, and is become able to give it a general
definition, and then again knows how to divide
it into kinds till he reaches the indivisible;
before he has investigated in like manner the
nature of the soul, and finding the kind of dis
course suitable for each kind of soul, orders
and embellishes his discourse accordingly ;
offering to complex souls discourses of complex
structure and rich in every harmony; but simple
discourses to simple souls : before, I say, he is
able to understand and do all this, he cannot
possibly handle discourse with the art of which
it admits, whether his object be to instruct or
persuade, as the whole of our previous argument
has tended to prove.

Ph. Yes, this is pretty nearly just as I
thought it was.

Soc. But what are we to say with respect to
the honour or disgrace of writing and speaking,
and the conditions under which they may justly
incur or avoid reproach ? Have not our late
arguments sufficed to show ?

I io PH&DRUS

Ph. What?

Soc. That if Lysias or any one else has ever
written, or means to write, either a private
book, or a public document in the shape of
a law, with the idea that his writing contains a
great certainty and clearness in this case re
proach attaches to the writer, whether people
say so or not. For a total blindness with regard
to justice and injustice, to virtue and vice,
escapes not in sooth the charge of being truly
disgraceful, even though it has been lauded by
all the world.

Ph. No j indeed it does not.

Soc. But whoever believes that in a written
discourse, whatever be the subject, there must
of necessity be much that is sportive ; and that
no discourse worthy of serious attention has
ever, either in verse or prose, been written or
spoken if spoken in the way that our declama
tions are recited, by rote, without examination
278 or instruction, merely to persuade but that
the very best of them are nothing else than
reminders to knowledge ; whoever believes this,
and believes on the other hand, that in dis
courses, and only in discourses taught, and for
the sake of instruction spoken and really written
in the soul of the hearer, about things just and
beautiful and good, there is found what is clear
and perfect, and worthy of attention ; and that
such discourses ought to be accounted his own
legitimate offspring ; first, the one in his own
mind, if it be there by his own discovery ; then
those which children or brothers of the former

PHMDRUS in

have either after or at the same time sprung up
worthily in the minds of others : whoever, I
say, thinks this of these discourses, and cares
for none beside, will go near, Phaedrus, to be
such a man as you and I would pray we might
both become.

J /i. Yes, Socrates, with all my heart I wish
and pray for such a lot.

Soc. Be we then content to have amused
ourselves thus far with the subject of speaking ;
and go you now, Phcedrus, and tell Lysias, that
you and I went down together to the spring
and favoured haunt of the nymphs, where we
heard words which bade us tell Lysias and all
writers of speeches ; Homer, and all makers of
poetry, without music or with ; Solon, and all
Cramers oC political writings under the name of
laws ; that if they composed their works with a
knowledge of the truth, and with ability to
defend them if brought to account, and with
the power, moreover, of making by the words
of their mouth the writings of their pen appear
but poor, they ought not to be named from
these holiday productions, but from those which
formed their earnest work.

/ //. What are the names then that you
accord them ?

Soc. To call them wise, Phncdrus, seems to
me indeed to be a great matter, and beseeming
God alone. Lovers of wisdom (philosophers),
or some name of this kind, would both suit
them better and be in better taste.

Ph. And nothing at all out of the way either.

112

PHsEDRUS

Soc. But the man, on the other hand, who
has nothing more precious to show than what
he long tortured his brain to write or compose
with elaborate patching and careful retrenching
that man, I conceive, you may justly denominate
either poet, or speech-writer, or writer of laws

Ph. Justly indeed.

Soc. Go then, tell this to your friend.

Ph. But you, Socrates, what will you do?
We must not pass over your friend either.

Soc. Whom do you mean ?

Ph. Isocrates the fair. What message will
you take him, Socrates ? What shall we say
that he is ?

Soc. Isocrates is still young, Phasdrus : what
279 I augur of him, however, I am willing to tell you

Ph. What is that, pray ?

Soc. I think better of his genius than to
compare it with the speech-writing of Lysias.
Moreover, I account him endued with a nobler
nature. So that there will be nothing sur
prising if, as he advances in years, he will in
the art of speaking even, to which he is now
applying himself, leave all who have hitherto
handled it, far as children behind him ; and
nothing surprising either if he be not content
with such achievements, but be led by a godlier
impulse to holier and higher things. For
nature, my friend, has implanted a love of
wisdom in the mind of the man. This then is
the message I will take from the gods of the
spot to Isocrates as my favourite, and do you
take the one I gave you to Lysias, as yours.

PH^EDRUS 113

Ph. It shall be done but let us depart, the
rather as the heat of the day is over.

Soc. Were it not better to offer up a prayer
to these gods before we go ?

Ph. Oh yes.

Soc. Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who
here abide, grant me to be beautiful in the
inner man, and all I have of outer things to be
at peace with those within. May I count the
wise man only rich. And may my store of
gold be such as none but the good can bear.

Phzedrus, need we anything more ? For
myself I have prayed enough.

Ph. For me too pray the same. Friends
share and share alike.
Soc. Let us go.

LYSIS

SUMMARY OF THE LYSIS

WALKING one day from the Academy to the Lyceum, 203
Socrucs fell in with two friends of his, named Hippo-
thales and Ctesippus, who were standing with some
other young men near the open door of a palaestra, and
was by them invited to enter. Before complying with
their request, he rallies Hippothales, who seems a foolish
amorous person, on the present object of his affections ;
and Ctesippus, joining in the attack, ridicules t
timid fulsome, pompous style in which Hippothales was
accustomed toaddress his beloved, the young andbeautifu
Lysis Socrates points out the evil of this habit ; and
promises that, if Hippothales will introduce him to
Lysis, he will show how he ought to be addressed.
Hippothales assents, and adds, You will find him in
the palestra, Socrates ; and if he does not come to you
of his own accord, as he is pretty sure to do when you
begin to talk for he is very fond of listening you can
get to know him through his great friend Menexenus
who is a cousinaa-Clesippus here, and whom you will
also find in the palcestra.

So Socrates enters and sees Lysis standing among his 207
playfellows, beautiful as a young god. Socrates then
sits down, and begins to talk to the young men who
had come in with him. Lysis eyes him wistfully, but js
too modest to join the group, till Menexenus comes
from the outer court, and then he too comes up t
sits down by his friend. Socrates, always pleased with
the sight of friends, begins to question Menexenus abo
their common friendship. But Menexenus is suddenly

u8 LYSIS

called away ; and then Socrates turns to Lysis, and
leaving the subject of friendship for the present, proceeds
to give Hippothales a specimen of the manner in which
a lover should address his beloved. This merely con
sists in putting him down, instead of puffing him up, as
Hippothales was wont to do. Socrates makes Lysis
admit that, though his father and mother are very fond
of him, and wish to see him happy, they are very far
from letting him do what he likes. On the contrary,
they scold him, and thwart him, and put him under
tutors and governors ; and all this, not because he is
not old enough to do as he likes for they let him do
some things, young as he is but because he is not wise
enough. He goes to school, because he has no notions
of things. And how can he have high notions, when he
has no notions ?

211 Thus does Socrates teach humility ; and Lysis, who
is really a charming boy, takes the lesson in very good
part. But at this moment Menexenus comes back to
the palaestra, and Socrates returns to the subject of
friendship.

212 Menexenus, he says, you are most fortunate at your
early age to have found a friend, and such a friend as
Lysis. I do so envy you, for there is nothing I value
so much as a friend. But what is friendship ? And,
when a man loves another, which is the friend ? the
lover, or the loved? or doesn t it matter? At first
Menexenus thinks it does not matter. Driven from this
view, he thinks it must be the lover ; and then that it
must be the loved one. But, as no view seems satis
factory, Socrates opines that they are" not conducting
the search in a proper method ; and, as Lysis chimes in
with a very pretty assent, Socrates turns to him and
proposes that they should try a different tact, and call
in the aid of the poets, our fathers in wisdom. What
then do the poets say ? Homer asserts that_J God
brings like to like. And don t our natural philosophers
say the same? Don t they assert that like loves like?
Is likeness then the cause of friendship? But this won t
hold. The bad are not friends to the bad, because
they are so inconsistent, that they are not even like

LYSIS 9

themselves ; much less are they like other bad men.
AnT he good are not friends to the good because they
are sufficient in themselves. They don t need other
good men, and therefore they are not friends to them.
If then likeness is not the cause of friendship let us try
the opposite, and say that likeness is a cause of aversion
and unlikeness of friendship. Now what do our poc s
and philosophers say to this? Doesn t Hesiod tell u
that Totter ever jars with potter? And don t our
philosophers tell us that dry craves for moist, and cold
for hot and so on ? But this won t hold either ; for then
the just would be friends to the unjust, and the good to
the bad : which is absurd.

Once more. We have found that good is not the 216
friend of good, nor evil of evil. But may it not be that
that which is neither good nor evil is the friend of a
cood thing ? Take the human body, for instance. 1 hat
essentially is neither good nor evil. But if any evil, as
(disease, comes upon it, then for the sake of getting rid
\of an evil thing it becomes the friend of the medical art,
which is a good thing. So too with philosophers, or
those who desire wisdom. They are not wholly wise
or they would have wisdom, instead of desiring it.
Nor are they unwise, or they would not desire it So
they too, being neither good nor evil, are friends of a
thing which is good. Surely then we have now dis
covered the nature of friendship. There is friendship,
where that, which is neither good nor evil, desires a
good thing because of the presence of an evil thing.
This conclusion is received by the boys with hearty
assent. But, though Socrates at first regards it with
complacency, a suspicion steals upon him that it is not
altogether right. The friend, it appears, is a friend c
some one for the sake of a good thing because of an
evil thing. Then this good thing is a friend or loved
thing, for the sake of some other thing, which is also
good and also loved. And this again for the sake of
some other good thing. And so on. At last therefore
we come to that good thing which has no beyond;
that is, to good absolutely. And of this we are the
friend because of evil. But, if evil were removed, we

120 LYSIS

should be friends of it no more ; for its whole use and
purport would be gone ; that is, there would be no
friendship. This explanation therefore will not do.

221 Once more. Is it not possible for a man to love an
object, not for the sake of any ulterior end, but simply
because he desires it ? Now he desires what he wants ;
and he wants what he is deprived of, and he is deprived
of that which is his own. Here then perhaps is the
source of friendship. We are friends of that which be
longs to us, which is akin to us, which is bound to us
by some mysterious tie. But this then would be like
us. But we cannot love that, for we have shown that
like cannot be the friend of like. And surely it would
be good. But we cannot love that, for we have shown
that good cannot be the final object of friendship. Are
we then wrong altogether, and must we give up our
search ?

223 With this confession of failure Socrates was going to
invite the opinion of the elders of the party, when the
governor of the two boys swooped down upon them
and persisted in taking them home. "Tis hard, con
cludes Socrates, that we three should be such friends,
and yet not know what a friend is !

LYSIS

I WAS walking straight from the Academy to 203
the Lyceum, by the road which skirts the out
side of the walls, and had reached the little
gate where is the source of the Panops, when
I fell in with Hippothales, the son of Hierony-
mus, Ctesippus the Paeanian, and some more
young men, standing together in a group.
Hippothales, seeing me approach, called out,
Ha, Socrates, whither and whence ?

From the Academy, I replied, and I am
going straight to the Lyceum.

Straight to us, I hope, cried he. Won t you
turn in ? it will be worth your while.

Turn in where ? said I ; and whom do you
mean by us ? There, he replied, pointing out
to me an enclosure facing us in the wall, with
an open door. There we are passing our time,
he added ; we whom you see, and a great
many other fine fellows too.

And what s all this, pray ? and how are you
passing your time ?

This is a palaestra that has been lately erected, 2O4
and we are passing our time principally in con
versations, of which we should be very glad to
give you a share.

122 LYSIS

You are very kind, I answered. And who
is your teacher there ?

A friend and admirer of yours, Miccus.

And no ordinary man either, I rejoined ; a
most competent sophist.

Won t you come with us then, he said, to
see both him and all our party there too ?

Here, where I am, was my reply, I should
like first to be informed, what I am to enter
for, and who is your prime beauty ?

Some think one, and some another, Socrates.
But whom do you think, Hippothales ? tell me
this. He answered only with a blush. So I
added, Hippothales, son of Hieronymus, there
is no longer any need for you to tell me
whether you are in love or not, since I am
sure you are not only in love, but pretty far
gone in it too by this time. For though in most
matters I am a poor useless creature, yet by
some means or other I have received from
heaven the gift of being able to detect at a
glance both a lover and a beloved. On hearing
this, he blushed still more deeply than before.
Whereupon Ctesippus broke in, It is very fine
of you, Hippothales, turning red in this way,
and making such a fuss about telling Socrates
the name, when he is quite sure, if he stays
ever so short a time in your company, to be
bored to death by hearing it always repeated.
At any rate, Socrates, he has deafened our ears
for us, and filled them full of Lysis. Nay, if
he be but a little tipsy when he talks of him,
we can easily fancy, on waking even the next

LYSIS 123

morning, that we are still hearing the name of
Lysis. But his constant talk about him, bad
as it is, is not the worst ; nothing like so bad
as when he begins to deluge us with his poems
and speeches, and, worse and worse, to sing a
song on his darling in a portentous voice,
which we are compelled to listen to with
patience. And yet now, when questioned by
you, he blushes.

Your Lysis must be quite a juvenile, I re
joined ; I conjecture this from my not know
ing the name when you mentioned it.

Why, they don t often call him by his own
name, Socrates ; he still goes by his father s,
the latter being so well known. Still, I am
sure, you cannot be a stranger to the boy s
appearance ; that s quite enough to know him by.

Say then, whose son he is.

Democrates s of CExone, his eldest.

Well done, Hippothales, said I. A noble,
and in every way a brilliant choice is this
which you have made. But come now, go on
about him with me, just as you do with your
friends here, that I may judge whether you know 205
what language a lover ought to hold with regard
to his favourite, either to his face or before others.

And do you really, Socrates, set any value
on what this fellow says ?

Do you mean, I asked, absolutely to deny
being in love with the person he mentions ?

No, not that, he answered ; but I do the
making verses or speeches on him.

He is out of his senses, doting, mad, cried

I2 4 LYSIS

Ctesippus. But, I replied, I don t want to
hear any of your verses, Hippothales, nor any
song either that you may have composed upon
your darling ; but I should like to have an idea
of their sense, that I may know how you be
have toward your favourite.

Ctesippus will tell you all about it, Socrates,
I don t doubt ; he must remember it well
enough, if it be true, as he says, that I dinned
it into his ears till he was deaf.

Oh, I know it, cried Ctesippus, right thor
oughly too. It is such a joke, Socrates. The
idea of a lover devoting himself exclusively to
the object of his love, and yet having nothing
of a personal interest to say to him that any
child might not say ; isn t it absurd ? But
stories that all the city rings with, about De-
mocrates, and Lysis the boy s grandfather, and
all his ancestors their wealth, their breeds of
horses, their victories at the Pythian, Isthmian,
Nemean, with four steeds and single all these
he works into poem and speech ; ay, and
stories too, still further out of date than these.
For in a sort of poem the other day, he gave
us the whole account of Hercules s entertain
ment, telling us how their ancestor received
that hero into his house on the strength of his
relationship, being himself son of Zeus, by the
daughter of the founder of CExone. Yes, Soc
rates, such, among others, are the old wives
tales that our lover here is ever singing and re
citing, and condemning us moreover to listen to.

On hearing this, I said to the lover, You

LYSIS 125

ridiculous Hippothales, are you making and
singing a hymn of praise on yourself before
you have won ?

It isn t on myself, Socrates, that I either
make or sing it.

You fancy not, said I.
How is it so ? said he.

In every way, I replied, these songs have
reference to you. If you succeed in winning
such a youth as you describe, all that you have
said and sung will redound to your honour, and
be in fact your hymn of triumph, as if you
had gained a victory in obtaining such a
favourite. But if he escape your grasp, then,
the higher the eulogium you have passed on
him, the greater will be the blessings which
you will seem to have missed, and the greater
consequently the ridicule you will incur. All 206
connoisseurs therefore in matters of love are
careful of praising their favourites before they
have won them, from their doubts as to the
result of the affair. Moreover, your beauties,
when lauded and made much of, become
gorged with pride and arrogance. Don t you
think so ?

I do, he replied.

And the more arrogant they are, the harder
they become to be caught ?

It is so to be expected, at any rate.
Well, what should you say to a huntsman
that frightened the prey he was in chase of,
and rendered it harder to be caught ?
That he was a very sorry one, certainly.

126 LYSIS

And if by speech and song he renders it
wild instead of luring it, he can be no favour
ite of the Muses ; can he ?

I think not.

Have a care then, Hippothales, that you do
not lay yourself open with your poetry to all
these reproaches. And yet I am sure, that to
a man, who injured himself by his poetry, you
would not be willing to accord the title of a
good poet, so long as he did himself harm.

No, indeed, that would be too unreasonable,
he replied. But it is on this very account,
Socrates, that I put myself in your hands, and
beg you to give me any advice you may have
to bestow, as to the course of conduct or con
versation that a lover ought to adopt in order
to render himself agreeable to the object of his
affection.

That were no such easy matter, I replied.
But if you would bring me to speech of Lysis,
perhaps I could give you a specimen of what
you ought to say to him, in place of the speeches
and songs which you are in the habit of treat
ing him with, according to your friends here.

Well, there is no difficulty in that, he re
joined. If you will only go into the palaestra
with Ctesippus, and sit down and begin to talk,
I have little doubt that he will come to you of
his own accord ; for he is singularly fond of
listening ; and, moreover, as they are keeping
the Hermaea, boys and young men are all
mixed up together to-day. So he is pretty
certain to join you. But if he does not,

LYSIS 127

Ctesippus knows him, through his cousin
Menexenus, who is Lysis s particular friend.
You can get Ctesippus therefore to summon
him, in case he does not come of himself.

This be our plan, I cried. And taking
Ctesippus with me, I walked towards the
palasstra, the rest following.

On entering we found that the boys had
finished their sacrifices, and, the ceremony
being now pretty well over, were playing to
gether at knuckle-bones, all in their holiday-
dress. The greater part were carrying on
their game in the court outside, but some of
them were in a corner of the undressing-room,
playing at odd and even with a number of
bones which they drew out of small baskets.
Round these were stationed others looking on,
among whom was Lysis ; and he stood in the
midst of boys and youths with a chaplet on
his head, unmatched in face or form. You 207
would say he was not beautiful merely, but
even of a noble mien. For ourselves, we with
drew to the opposite part of the room, and
sitting down, as nothing was going on there,
began to talk. While thus engaged, Lysis
kept turning round and eyeing us, evidently
wishing to join us. For some time though he
remained in doubt, not liking to walk up alone.
But when Menexenus looked in from his game
in the court, and on seeing Ctesippus and me
came to sit down with us, Lysis also followed
at sight of his friend, and took a seat by his
side. Then the others came up too, and

128 LYSIS

among them Hippothales ; who, seeing them
form into a good-sized group, screened himself
behind them in a position where he did not
think he could be seen by Lysis ; so fearful
was he of giving him offence. And thus
placed near him, he listened to our conversation.

I began it by turning my eyes on Menexenus,
and saying, Son of Demophon, which of you
two is the elder ?

It is a disputed point, he replied.

And do you dispute too, which is the better
fellow ?

Certainly, was his answer.

And so too, I suppose, which is the more
beautiful ?

At this they both laughed. I will not ask
you, I added, which is the wealthier ; for you
are friends, are you not ?

That we are ! they both cried.

And friends, they tell us, share and share
alike ; so in this respect, at any rate, there
will be no difference between you, if only you
give me a true account of your friendship.

To this they both assented.

I was then proceeding to inquire which of
the two excelled in justice, and which in wis
dom, when some one came up and carried off
Menexenus, telling him that the master of the
palaestra wanted him I presume, on business
connected with the sacrifice. Accordingly he
left us, and I went on questioning Lysis.
Lysis, said I, I suppose your father and mother
love you very dearly.

LYSIS 129

Very dearly, he answered.

They would wish you then to be as happy
as possible.

Of course.

Do you think a man happy if he is a slave,
and may not do what he wants ?

No, that indeed I don t.

Well, if your father and mother love you,
and wish you to become happy, it is clear that
they try in every way to make you happy.

To be sure they do.

They allow you then, I suppose, to do what
you wish, and never scold you, or hinder you
from doing what you want to do.

Yes, but they do though, Socrates, and
pretty frequently too.

How ? said I. They wish you to be happy, 208
and yet hinder you from doing what you want.
But tell me this : If you wanted to ride on one
of your father s chariots, and take the reins
during a race, would they not allow you ?

No, most assuredly they would not.

Whom would they then ? I asked.

There is a charioteer paid by my father.

Paid ! cried I. Do they allow a paid ser
vant in preference to you to do what he pleases
with the horses, and, what is more, give him
money for so doing ?

Not a doubt about it, Socrates, he replied.

Well, but your pair of mules I am sure they
let you drive ; and even if you wished to take
the whip and whip them, they would allow you.

Allow me, would they ? said he.
K

130 LYSIS

Would they not ? said I. Is there no one
allowed to whip them ?

Of course there is ; the mule-driver.

Is he a slave or free ?

A slave, he answered.

A slave then, it appears, they think of more
account than you, their son ; they entrust their
property to him rather than to you : and they
allow him to do what he pleases, while you
they hinder. But answer me further. Do they
let you rule yourself, or not even allow you this ?

Rule myself! I should think not, said he.

You have some one to rule you then ?

Yes, my governor here.

Not a slave ?

Yes, but he is though, ours.

Shocking ! I exclaimed. A free man to be
ruled by a slave. But how, pray, does this
governor exercise his authority ?

He takes me to school, of course.

And do you mean to say that they rule you
there too the schoolmasters ?

Most certainly they do.

Very many then, it appears, are the masters
and rulers whom your father sets over you on
purpose. But come now, when you go home
to your mother, she, I am sure, lets you do
what you please that you may be as happy
as she can make you either with her wool or
her loom, when she is spinning. It cannot
possibly be that she hinders you from touching
her spathe or her comb, or any other of her
spinning implements.

LYSIS 131

He burst out a-laughing. I can assure you,
Socrates, he said, she not only hinders me,
but would get me a good beating if I did touch
them.

Beating ! cried I. You haven t done your
father or mother any wrong, have you ?

Not I, he answered.

Whatever is the reason then that they
hinder you in this shocking manner from
being happy, and doing what you like ; and
keep you all the day long in bondage to some
one or other, and, in a word, doing hardly
anything at all you want to do ? So that it
seems you get no good whatever from your
fortune, large as it is, but all have control over
it, rather than you ; nor again from that beauti- 209
ful person of yours ; for it too is under the
care and charge of other people, while you,
poor Lysis, have control over nothing at all,
nor do a single thing you wish.

Because I m not of age, Socrates.

That should be no hindrance, son of Dc-
mocrates, since there are things, I fancy,
which both your father and mother allow you
to do, without waiting for you to be of age.
When they wish, for example, to have anything
written or read, it is you, I conceive, whom
they appoint to the office before any one else
in the house. Isn t it ?

Beyond a question, he replied.
In these matters then you are allowed to
do as you please : you may write whichever
letter you like first, and whichever you like

1 32 LYSTS

second. And in reading you enjoy the same
liberty. And when you take up your lyre,
neither father nor mother, I imagine, hinder
you from tightening or loosening such strings
as you choose, or from playing with your fingers
or stick, as you may think proper. Or do they
hinder you in such matters ?

Oh dear no ! he exclaimed.

What in the world then can be the reason,
Lysis, that in these matters they don t hinder
you, while in the former they do ?

I suppose it is, Socrates, because I under
stand the one, and don t understand the other.

Oh ! that s it, is it, my fine fellow ? It is
not then for you to be old enough that your
father is waiting to hand over everything ; but on
the very day that he thinks you are wiser than
he is, he will hand over to you both himself
and all his possessions.

I shouldn t wonder, said he.

Nor I, said I. But again. Does your
neighbour follow the same rule that your father
does with regard to you ? Do you expect he
will hand over to you his house to manage,
as soon as he thinks you have a better idea of
the management of a house than he has him
self; or will he keep it in his own hands ?

Hand it over to me, I should think. .

And the Athenians ? Will they, do you
imagine, hand over to you their matters directly
they perceive that you are wise enough to
manage them ?

Yes, I expect so.

LYSIS 133

But come now, I asked, what will the great
king do ? When his meat is cooking, will he
allow his eldest son, heir to the throne of Asia,
to throw into the gravy whatever he chooses ;
or us rather, if we come before him, and
prove that we have a better idea than his son
has of dressing a dish ?
Us, to be sure, said he.

And the prince he won t allow to put in the
least morsel even ; while with us he would
make no difficulty, though we wished to throw
in salt by handfuls ?
Exactly.

Once more. If his son had something the
matter with his eyes, would he allow him to
touch them himself, if he thought him ignorant 210
of the healing art, or rather hinder him ?
Hinder him.

But against us on the other hand, if he con
ceived us to be skilled in the art, he would, I
imagine, make no objection, even though we
wished to force open the eyes, and sprinkle in
ashes, as he would suppose us to be rightly
advised.

True, he would not.

And so, with everything else whatsoever, he
would entrust it to us rather than to himself
or his son, if he believed that we knew more
about it than either of them did.
Necessarily he would, Socrates.
You see then, said I, how the case stands,
dear Lysis. In matters of which we have know
ledge all people will trust us, whether Greeks

134 LYSIS

or barbarians, men or women ; we shall act,
with regard to them, exactly as we please ; no
one will intentionally stand in our way ; and
not only shall we be free ourselves in these
matters, but we shall be lords over others, and
they will be in fact our property, as we shall
have the enjoyment of them. With regard to
matters, on the other hand, into which we have
acquired no insight, no one will ever allow us
to act as we think proper, but all persons, to
the best of their power, will hinder us from
meddling with them; not only strangers, but even
our own father and mother, and any nearer re
lation if we possess one ; and we ourselves in
these matters shall be subject to others, and
they will be in fact the property of others, as
we shall derive no advantage from them. Do
you allow this to be the case ?

I do.

Will any one then count us his friends, will
any one love us, in those matters in which we
are of no use ?

Indeed no.

According to this then, not even you are
loved by your own father, nor is any one else
by any one else in the world, in so far as you
or he is useless ?

So it would appear, he said.

If therefore you acquire knowledge, my
son, all men will be friendly to you, all men
will be attached to you ; for you will be useful
and good. If not, you will have no friend in
any one, not even in your father or mother, or

LYSIS US

any of your own family. Now is it possible,
Lysis, for a man to have a great idea of him
self in those matters of which he has as yet
no idea ?

How can he possibly ? he replied.
And if you still require, as you do, an in
structor, you are still without ideas.
True, he answered.

It cannot be then, that you have a great
idea of yourself, if as yet you have no idea.
No really, Socrates, I don t see how I can.
On receiving this reply from Lysis, I turned
my eyes on Hippothales, and was on the point
of making a great blunder. For it came into
my head to say, This is the way, Hippothales,
that you should talk to your favourite, hum
bling and checking, instead of puffing him up
and pampering him, as you now do. How
ever, on seeing him writhing with agitation at
the turn the conversation was taking, I recol
lected that, though standing so near, he didn t
wish to be seen by Lysis. So I recovered
myself in time, and forbore to address him.

At this moment too Menexenus returned, 211
and took the seat by Lysis, from which he had
previously arisen. Whereupon Lysis, in a boy
ish fondling way, said to me in a low voice, so
that Menexenus couldn t hear, I say, Socrates,
say over again to Menexenus what you have
been saying to me.

No, Lysis, I replied ; you must tell him
that : you were certainly attending.
I should think I was too, he rejoined.

136 LYSIS

Try to remember it then, as well as you can,
that you may give him a clear account of the
whole ; and if there s anything you forget, ask
me about it some other day the first time you
meet me.

Well, I ll do as you tell me, Socrates, with
all my heart ; you may rely upon that. But
say something else to him now, will you, that
I too may hear it, till it s time for me to go
home.

Well, I must do so, I replied, since it s you
who bid me. But mind you come to my aid,
if Menexenus tries to baffle me. You know,
don t you, that he s fond of a dispute.

Oh yes, desperately, I know. And that s the
very reason I want you to talk with him.
That I make myself ridiculous, eh ?
Oh dear no, Socrates, but that you may
put him down.

Put him down, indeed, cried I ; that s no
such easy matter. He s a redoubtable man,
this ; a scholar of Ctesippus s. And here s his
master too himself to help him don t you
see ? Ctesippus.

Trouble yourself about no one," Socrates, he
said ; but begin, attack him.
As you will, said I.

At this point of our by-play Ctesippus cried
out, What s that you two there are feasting on
by yourselves, without giving us a share ?

Never fear, said I, you shall have a share.
There s something I ve said that Lysis here
doesn t understand. He says though, he

L YS1S 137

thinks Menexenus knows, and bids me ask
him.

Why don t you ask him then ? he rejoined.

Just what I mean to do, I replied. Answer,
Menexenus, the questions I ask. From my
earliest childhood I have had a particular
fancy ; every one has. One longs for horses,
another for dogs, a third for money, a fourth
for office. For my part, I look on these
matters with equanimity, but on the acquisition
of friends with all a lover s passion ; and I
should like to get a good friend rather than
the best quail or cock in the world ; I should
prefer one to both horse and dog ; nay, I fully
believe, that I would far sooner acquire a friend
and companion, than all the gold of Darius,
ay, or than Darius himself. So fond am I of
friendship. On seeing therefore you and 212
Lysis, I am lost in wonder, while I count you
most happy, at your being able, at your years,
to acquire this treasure with such readiness
and ease ; in that you, Menexenus, have gained
so early and true a friend in Lysis, and he the
same in you ; while I, on the contrary, am so
far from making the acquisition, that I do not
even know how one man becomes the friend
of another, but wish on this very point to
appeal to you as a connoisseur. Answer me
this. When one loves another, which of the
two becomes the friend ? the lover of the loved,
or the loved of the lover ? Or does it make
no difference ?

None in the world, that I can see, he replied.

138 L YSIS

How ? said I ; are both friends, if only one
loves ?

I think so, he answered.

Indeed ! is it not possible for one who loves
not to be loved in return by the object of his
love?

It is.

Nay, is it not possible for him even to be
hated ? treatment, if I mistake not, which
lovers frequently fancy they receive at the
hands of their favourites. Though they love
their darlings as dearly as possible, they often
imagine that they are not loved in return, often
that they are even hated. Don t you believe
this to be true ?

Quite true, he replied.

Well, in such a case as this, the one loves,
the other is loved.

Just so.

Which of the two then is the friend of the
other ? the lover of the loved, whether or no
he be loved in return, and even if he be hated,
or the loved of the lover ? or is neither the
friend of the other, unless both love each
other ?

The latter certainly seems to be the case,
Socrates.

If so, I continued, we think differently now
from what we did before. Then it appeared
that, if one loved, both were friends ; but now,
that, unless both love, neither are friends.

Yes, I m afraid we have contradicted our
selves.

LYSIS 139

This being the case then, the lover has not
a friend in anything that does not love him in
return.

Apparently not.

People then have not friends in horses, un
less their horses love them in return, nor in
quails, nor in dogs, nor again in wine or
gymnastics, unless their love be returned ; nor
in wisdom, unless wisdom loves them in return.
But in each of these cases the individual loves
the object, but has not a friend in it ; and the
poet is wrong who says :

Happy the man who has friends in his children, and

solid-hoofed horses,
Friends too in dogs of the chase, friends in a far-away

land.

I don t think he is wrong, Socrates.

But do you think he s right ?

Yes, I do.

The lover then, it appears, Menexenus, has
a friend in the object of his love, whether the
object love, or even hate him. Just as quite
young children, who are either not yet old 213
enough to love, or are old enough even to feel
hatred when punished by father or mother, are
yet, at the very time that they are hating, friends
to their parents in the very highest degree.

Yes, such appears to be the case.

By this reasoning then it is not the lover
that is the friend, but the object of love.

Apparently.

And so the object of hatred is the enemy,
not the hater.

1 40 LYSIS

Clearly.

It frequently happens then that people are
loved by their enemies, and hated by their
friends ; that is, are friends to their enemies,
and enemies to their friends ; if it be true that
the loved is the friend, and not the lover. But
surely, my dear Menexenus, it were grossly
unreasonable, nay rather I think altogether
impossible, for a man to be an enemy to his
friend, and a friend to his enemy.

Yes, Socrates, it does seem impossible.

Well then, if this be impossible, it must be
the lover that is the friend of the loved.

Clearly.

And so again the hater must be the enemy
of the object hated.

Necessarily.

But if this be true, we cannot help arriving
at the same conclusion as we did in the former
case ; namely, that it often happens that a man
is a friend of one that is no friend, nay rather
an enemy ; as often, that is as he is not loved,
but even hated, by the man whom he loves :
and often again, that he is an. enemy of one
that is no enemy, but rather a friend ; as often,
that is, as he is not hated, but even loved, by
the man whom he hates.

No, I am afraid we can t.

What are we to do then, said I, if neither
those who love are to be friends, nor those who
are loved, nor, again, those who both love and are
loved ? Are there any other people beside these
that we can say become friends to each other ?

LYSIS 141

To tell you the truth, Socrates, said he, I
don t see my way at all.

Is it possible, Menexenus, said I, that from
first to last we have been conducting our
search improperly ?

I am sure I think it is, Socrates, cried
Lysis. And he blushed as he said so. For
the words seemed to burst from him against
his will in the intensity of the interest he was
paying to the conversation ; an interest which
his countenance had evinced all the time we
were talking.

I then, wishing to relieve Menexenus, and
charmed with the other s intelligence, turned
to Lysis, and directing my discourse to him,
observed, Yes, Lysis, you are quite right, I
think, in saying that, if we had conducted our

irch properly, we should never have lost
irselves in this manner. Let us proceed,
however, on this line of inquiry no longer for
I look upon it as a very difficult sort of road
but let us go back again to that point at which
we turned aside, and follow in the steps of the
poets. For poets, I conceive, are as good as 214
fathers and guides to us in matters of wisdom.
\Vcll, the poets, if I mistake not, put forward
no slight claims for those who happen to be
friends, but tell us that it is God Himself who
makes them friends, by leading them one to
another. They express, if I remember right,
their opinion thus

Like men, I trow, to like God ever leads,

142 L YSIS

and makes them known. You have met with
the verse, have you not ?

Oh yes.

And also with the writings of those learned
sages which tell the same story ; namely, that
like must of necessity be ever friendly with
like. And these are they, if I mistake not,
who talk and write on nature and the universe.

True, they are.

Well, do you think they are right in what
they say ? I asked.

Perhaps, said he.

Perhaps, I answered, in half; perhaps too,
even; in all ; only we don t understand. For,
as it appears to us, the nearer wicked men
come to each other, and the more they see of
each other, the greater enemies they become.
For they injure each other. And it is im
possible, I take it, for men to be friends, if
they injure and are injured in turn.

So it is, he replied.

By this then it would appear, that half of
their assertion cannot be true, if we suppose
them to mean that wicked men are like one
another.

So it would.

But they mean to say, I imagine, that the
good are like and friendly with the good ; but
that the bad, as is remarked of them in another
place, are not ever even like themselves, but
are variable and not to be reckoned upon.
And if a thing be unlike and at variance with
itself, it will be long, I take it, before it be-

L YSIS 143

comes like to or friendly with anything else.
Don t you think so too ?
I do, he answered.

When therefore, my friend, our authors
assert that like is friendly with like, they mean,
I imagine, to intimate, though obscurely enough,
that the good man is a friend to the good man
only ; but that the bad man never engages in
a true friendship either with a good or a bad
man. Do you agree? He nodded assent.
We know then now, I continued, who it is
that are friends ; for our argument shows us
that it must be those who are good.

Quite clearly too, I think, said he.

And so do I, I rejoined. Still there is a
something in the way that troubles me ; so let
us, with the help of heaven, see what it is that
I suspect. Like men are friendly with like
men, in so far as they are like, and such a
man is useful to such a man. Or rather, let
us put it in this way. Is there any good or
harm that a like thing can do to a like thing,
which it cannot also do to itself ? is there 215
any that can be done to it, which cannot also
be clone to it by itself? And if not, how can
such things be held in regard by each other,
when they have no means of assisting one
another ? Can this possibly be ?

No, not possibly.

And if a thing be not held in regard, can it
be a friend ?

Certainly not.

But, you will say, the like man is not a

144 L YSIS

friend to the like man ; but the good will be a
friend to the good, in so far as he is good, not
in so far as he is like.

Perhaps I may.

And I should rejoin, Will not the good
man, in so far as he is good, be found to be
sufficient for himself?

Yes.

And if sufficient, he will want nothing so far
as his sufficiency goes.

Of course not.

And if he does not want anything, he won t
feel regard for anything either.

To be sure not.

And what he does not feel regard for, he
cannot love.

Not he.

And if he does not love, he won t be a friend.

Clearly not.

How then, I wonder, will the good be ever
friends at all with the good, when neither in
absence do they feel regret for each other,
being sufficient for themselves apart, nor when
present together have they any need of one
another ? Is there any possible way by which
such people can be brought to care for each
other ?

None whatever.

And if they do not care for each other, they
cannot possibly be friends.

True, they cannot

Look and see then, Lysis, how we have
been led into error ; if I mistake not, we are

L YSIS 145

deceived in the whole, and not only in the
half.

How so ? he asked.

Once upon a time, I replied, I heard a
statement made which has just this moment
flashed across my mind ; it was, that nothing
is so hostile to like as like, none so hostile to
the good as the good. And among other
arguments, my informant adduced the authority
of Hesiod, telling me that, according to him,

Potter ever jars with potter, bard with bard, and poor
with poor.

And so, he added, by a universal and infallible
law the nearer any two things resemble one
another, the fuller do they become of envy,
strife, and hatred ; and the greater the dis
similarity, the greater the friendship. For the
poor are obliged to make themselves friends of
the rich, and the weak of the strong, for the
sake of their assistance ; the sick man also
must be friendly with the physician ; and, in
short, every one who is without knowledge
must feel regard and affection for those who
possess it. Nay, he proceeded with increased
magnificence of position to assert, that the like
was so far from being friendly with the like,
that the exact opposite was the case ; the more
any two things were contrary, the more were
they friendly to each other. For everything,
he says, craves for its contrary, and not for its
like ; the dry craves for moisture, the cold for
heat, the bitter for sweetness, the sharp for
L

146 LYSIS

bluntness, the empty to be filled, the full to be
emptied. And everything else follows the
same rule. For the contrary, he added, is
food to the contrary, the like can derive no
advantage from the like. And I can assure
you I thought him extremely clever as he said
216 all this ; he stated his case so well. But you,
my friends, what do you think of it ?

Oh, it seems very fair at first hearing, said
Menexenus.

Shall we admit then that nothing is so
friendly to a thing as its contrary ?

By all means.

But if we do, Menexenus, will there not spring
upon us suddenly and uncouthly and exultingly
those universal-knowledge men, the masters of
dispute, and ask us, whether there is anything
in the world so contrary to enmity as friendship ?
And if they do, what must be our answer ? Can
we possibly help admitting that they are right ?

No, we cannot.

Well then, they will say, is friendship a
friend to enmity, or enmity to friendship ?

Neither one nor the other, he replied.

But justice, I suppose, is a friend to injustice,
temperance to intemperance, good to evil.

No, I don t think this can be the case.

Well but, I rejoined, if one thing is friend
to another thing in virtue of being its contrary,
these things must of necessity be friendly.

So they must, he allowed.

It follows then, I think, that neither like is
friendly with like, nor contrary with contrary.

LYSIS 147

Apparently it does.

Well then, said I, let us look again, and see

whether we be not still as far as ever from

rinding friendship, since it is clearly none of

icse things I have mentioned, but whether

lat which is neither good nor evil may not

possibly turn out, however late, to be friendly

with the good.

How do you mean ? he asked.
Why, to tell you the truth, said I, I don t
know myself, being quite dizzied by the en
tanglement of the subject. I am inclined though
to think that, in the words of the old proverb,
the Beautiful is friendly. Certainly the friendly
has the appearance of being something soft
and smooth and slippery ; and probably it is
from being of this character that it slides and
slips through our fingers so easily. Now I
am of this opinion, because the good, I assert,
is beautiful. Don t you think so ?
I do, said he.

I further assert, with a diviner s foresight,
that to the beautiful and good that which is
neither good nor evil is friendly. And my
reasons for divining this I will tell you. I con
ceive I recognise three distinct classes, good,
evil, and, thirdly, that which is neither good
nor evil. Do you allow this distinction ?
I do.

Now that good is friendly with good, or evil
with evil, or good with evil, we are hindered
by our previous arguments from believing. It
remains then that, if there be anything friendly

148 L YSIS

with anything, that which is neither good nor
evil must be friendly either with the good or
with that which resembles itself. For nothing,
I am sure, can be friendly with evil.

True.

But neither can like be friendly with like ;
this we also said, did we not ?

We did.

That then which is neither good nor evil
will not be friendly with that which resembles
itself.

Clearly not.

It follows then, I conceive, that friendship
can only exist between good and that which is
neither evil nor good.
217 Necessarily, as it appears.

What think you then, my children, I pro
ceeded to say; is our present position guiding us
in a right direction ? If we look attentively, we
perceive that a body which is in health has no
need whatever of the medical art or of any
assistance ; for it is sufficient in itself. And
therefore no one in health is friendly with a
physician on account of his health.

Just so, he replied.

But the sick man zs, I imagine, on account
of his sickness.

Undoubtedly.

Sickness, you will allow, is an evil ; the art
of medicine both useful and good.

Yes.

But a body, if I mistake not, in so far as it
is a body, is neither good nor evil.

L YSIS 149

Exactly.

A body though is compelled, on account of
sickness, to embrace and love the medical art.
I think so.

That then which is neither evil nor good
becomes friendly with good, on account of the
presence of evil.
Apparently.

But evidently it becomes so, before it is it
self made evil by the evil which it contains ;
for, once become evil, it can no longer, you
will allow, be desirous of or friendly with good ;
for evil, we said, cannot possibly be friendly
with good.

No, it cannot possibly.

Now mark what I say. I say that some
things are themselves such as that which is
present with them, some things are not such.
For example, if you dye a substance with any
colour, the colour which is dyed in is present,
I imagine, with the substance which is dyed.
To be sure it is.

After the process then, is the dyed substance
such, in point of colour, as that which is
applied ?

I don t understand, he said.
But you will thus, said I. If any one were
to dye your locks of gold with white-lead,
would they, after the dyeing, be, or appear,
white ?
Appear.

And yet whiteness would, at any rate, be
present with them.

J 5o LYSIS

True.

But still they would not, as yet, be at all the
more white on that account ; but though white
ness is present with them, they are neither
white nor black.

Precisely.

But when, my dear Lysis, old age has
brought upon them this same colour, then they
become really such as that which is present with
them, white by the presence of white.

Yes, indeed they do.

This then is the question I want to ask.
If a thing be present in a substance, will the
substance be such as that which is present
with it : or will it be such, if the thing is pre
sent under certain conditions ; under certain
conditions, not ?

The latter rather, said he.

That then which is neither evil nor good is,
in some cases, when evil is present with it, not
evil as yet ; in other cases it has already be
come such.

Exactly.

Well then, said I, when it is not evil as yet,
though evil be present with it, this very pres
ence of evil makes it desirous of good ; but the
presence which makes it evil deprives it, at the
same time, of its desire and friendship for
218 good. For it is no longer a thing neither evil
nor good, but already evil ; and evil, we said,
cannot be friendly with good.
True, it cannot be.

On the same ground then we may further

LYSIS IS 1

assert, that those who are already wise are no
longer friends to wisdom, be they gods, or be
they men; nor, again, are those friends to
wisdom who are so possessed of foolishness as
to be evil ; for no evil and ignorant man is a
friend to wisdom. There remain then those
who possess indeed this evil, the evil of fool
ishness, but who are not, as yet, in consequence
of it, foolish or ignorant, but still understand
that they do not know the things they do not
know. And thus, you see, it is those who are
neither good nor evil, as yet, that are friends
to wisdom (philosophers), but those who are evil
are not friends ; nor again are the good. For
that contrary is not friendly with contrary, nor
like with like, was made apparent in the former
part of our discourse. Do you remember ?
Oh perfectly, they both cried.
Now then, Lysis and Menexenus, I continued,
we have, as it appears, discovered, beyond a
dispute, what it is that is friendly, and not
friendly. Whether in respect of the soul, or of
the body, or of anything else whatsoever, that,
we pronounce, which is neither evil nor good
is friendly with good on account of the presence
of evil. To this conclusion they both yielded
a hearty and entire assent.

For myself, I was rejoicing, with all a hunter s
delight, at just grasping the prey I had been
so long in chase of, when presently there came
into my mind, from what quarter I cannot tell,
the strangest sort of suspicion. It was, that
the conclusions to which we had arrived were

152 LYSIS

not true ; and, sorely discomfited, I cried,
Alack-a-day, Lysis, alack, Menexenus ; we
have, I fear me, but dreamed our treasure.

Why so ? said Menexenus.

I am afraid, I answered, that, just as if with
lying men, we have fallen in with some such
false reasonings in our search after friendship.

How do you mean ? he asked.

Look here, said I. If a man be a friend, is
he a friend to some one, or not ?

To some one, of course.

For the sake of nothing, and on account of
nothing, or for the sake and on account of
something ?

For the sake and on account of something.

Is that thing a friend, or loved, for the
sake of which he is a friend to his friend, or is
it neither friend nor foe ?

I don t quite follow, he said.

No wonder, said I ; but perhaps you will if
we take this course ; and I too, I think, shall
better understand what I am saying. The sick
man, as we just now said, is a friend of the
physician. Is he not ?

He is.

On account of sickness, for the sake of
health ?

Yes.

Sickness is an evil ?

Beyond a doubt.

But what is health ? I asked ; a good, an
evil, or neither one nor the other ?

A good, he replied.

LYSIS 53

We further stated, I think, that the body, 219
a thing neither good nor evil, is, on account of
sickness, that is to say, on account of an evil,

a friend of the medical art. And the medical

art is a good ; and it is for the sake of health
that the medical art has acquired this friendship ;
and health is a good, is it not ?
It is.

Is health a friend, or not a friend? loved, I
mean, or not loved ?
A friend.

And sickness a foe ?
Most decidedly.

That then it appears, which is neither good
nor evil, is a friend of a good on account of an
evil which is a foe, for the sake of a good
which is a friend ?
So it seems.

The friend then is a friend for the sake of
that which is a friend, on account of that
which is a foe ?
Apparently.

Very well, said I. But arrived as we are, I
added, at this point, let us pay all heed, my
children, that we be not misled. That friend
is become friend to friend, that is to say, that
like is become friend to like, which we declared
to be impossible, is a matter I will allow to
pass ; but there is another point which we
must attentively consider, in order that we
may not be deceived by our present position.
The medical art, we said, is a friend, or loved
thing, for the sake of health.

154 LYSIS

We did.

Is health a friend too ?

To be sure it is.

For the sake of something ?

Yes.

For the sake of something then which is a
friend, if this too is to follow our previous
admission ?

Certainly. But will not that something too
be a friend for the sake of some other thing
which is a friend ?

Yes.

Can we possibly help then being weary of
going on in this manner ; and is it not necessary
that we advance at once to a beginning, which
will not again refer us to friend upon friend,
but arrive at that which in the first instance
is a friend, or loved, and for the sake of which
we say that all the rest are loved ?

It is necessary, he answered.

This, then, is what I say we must consider,
in order that all those other things, which we
said were loved, for the sake of that one thing,
may not, like so many shadows .of it, lead us
into error, but that we may establish that
thing as the first, which is really and truly
loved. For let us view the matter thus : If a
man sets a high value upon a thing ; for in
stance, if, as is frequently the case, a father
prizes a son above everything else he has in
the world, may such a father be led by the ex
treme regard he has for his son, to set a high
value upon other things also ? Suppose, for

LYSIS 155

example, he were to hear of his having drunk
some hemlock ; would he set a high value on
wine, if he believed that wine would cure his
son ?

Of course he would.

And on the vessel also which contained the
wine ?
Certainly.

Do you mean to say, then, that he sets an
equal value on both, on a cup of earthenware
and his own son, on his own son and a quart
of wine ? Or is the truth rather thus ? all such
value as this is set not on those things which are
procured for the sake of another thing, but on
that for the sake of which all such things are 220
procured. We often talk, I do not deny, about
setting a high value on gold and silver ; but is
the truth on this account at all the more thus ?
No, what we value supremely is that, whatever
it may be found to be, for the sake of which
gold, and all other subsidiaries, are procured.
Shall we not say so ?
Unquestionably.

And does not the same reasoning hold with
regard to friendship? When we say we are
friends to things for the sake of a thing which
is a friend to us, do we not clearly use a term
with regard to them which belongs to another ?
And does not that only seem to be really a
friend in which all these so-called friendships
terminate ?

Yes, he said, this would appear to be the
truth.

156 LYSIS

Therefore that which is really a friend, or
loved, is not loved for the sake of another loved
thing.

Clearly not.

This point then we dismiss as sufficiently
proved. But to proceed, is good a friend ?
I imagine so.

And good is loved on account of evil, and
the case stands thus. If, of the three classes
that we just now distinguished, good, evil, and
that which is neither evil nor good, two only
were to be left to us, but evil were to be re
moved out of our path, and were never again
to come in contact either with body or soul, or
any other of these things, which in themselves
we say are neither good nor evil, would it not
come to pass that good would no longer be
useful to us, but have become useless ? for if
there were nothing any more to hurt us, we
should have no need whatever of any assistance.
And thus you see it would then be made
apparent that it was only on account of evil
that we felt regard and affection for good, as
we considered good to be a medicine for evil,
and evil to be a disease ; but where there is
no disease, there is, we are aware, no need of
medicine. This, then, it appears, is the nature
of good ; it is loved on account of evil by us
who are intermediate between evil and good ;
but in itself, and for itself, it is of no use.

Yes, he said, such would seem to be the
case.

It follows then, I think, that that final friend

LYSIS 157

of ours, in which terminated all the other
things which we said were friends for the sake
of another friend, bears to those things no re
semblance at all. For these things are called
friends for the sake of a friend, but our true
friend appears to be of a nature exactly the
reverse of this ; for it was found to be our
friend for the sake of an enemy : but, if the
enemy were removed, no longer, as it seems,
do we possess a friend.

Apparently not, said he, according at least
to our present position.

But tell me this, said I. If evil be extin
guished, will it no longer be possible to feel
hunger or thirst, or any similar desire ? or will 221
hunger exist, as long as man and the whole
animal creation exists, but exist without being
hurtful? And will thirst too and all other
desires exist, but not be evil, inasmuch as evil
is extinct ?

It is ridiculous though to ask what will exist
or not exist in such a case; for who can know?
but this at any rate we do know, that even at
present it is possible for a man to be injured by
the sensation of hunger, and possible for him
also to be profited. Is it not ?
Certainly it is.

And so, too, a man who feels thirst, or any
similar desire, may feel it in some cases with
profit to himself, in other cases with hurt, and
in other cases again, with neither one nor the
other.

Assuredly he may.

158 LYSIS

Well, if evil is being extinguished, is there
any reason in the world for things that are not
evil to be extinguished with it ?
None whatever.

There will exist then those desires which are
neither evil nor good, even if evil be extinct.
Clearly.

Is it possible for a man who is desirous and
enamoured not to love that of which he is
desirous and enamoured ?
I think not.

There will exist then, it appears, even if evil
be extinct, certain things which are friends, or
loved.

Yes, there will.

But if evil were the cause of a thing being
loved, it would not be possible, when evil was
extinct, for anything to be loved by anything ;
for if a cause be extinct, surely it is no longer
possible for that to exist of which it was the
cause.

True, it is not.

But above we agreed that the friend loved
something, and on account of something, and
at the same time we were of opinion, that it was
on account of evil, that that, which is neither
good nor evil, loved the good.
So we were.

But now, it appears, we have discovered
some other cause of loving and being loved.
So it does.

Is it true then, as we were just now saying,
that desire is the cause of friendship, and that

LYSIS 159

whatever desires is friendly to that which it
desires, and friendly at the time of its feeling
the desire ; and was all that, which we pre
viously said about being friendly, mere idle
talk, put together after the fashion of a lengthy
poem ?

I am afraid it was, he replied.

But that, I continued, which feels desire, feels
desire for that of which it is in want. Does it
not ?

Yes.

And that which is in want is a friend of that
of which it is in want.

I imagine so.

And becomes in want of that which is taken
from it ?

Of course.

That then which belongs to a man is found,
it seems, Lysis and Menexenus, to be the object
of his love, and friendship, and desire.

They both assented.

If then you two are friends to one another,
by some tie of nature you belong to each other ?

To be sure we do, they cried together.

And so in general, said I, if one man, my
children, is desirous and enamoured of another,
he can never have conceived his desire, or love, 222
or friendship, without in some way belonging,
or being akin, to the object of his love, either
in his soul, or in some quality of his soul, or in
disposition, or in form.

I quite believe you, cried Menexenus ; but
Lysis said not a word.

160 LYSIS

Well then, I continued, that which by nature
belongs to us it has been found necessary for us
to love.

So it appears, said Menexenus.

It cannot possibly be then, but that a true
and genuine lover is loved in return by the
object of his love. To this conclusion Lysis
and Menexenus nodded a sort of reluctant
assent, while Hippothales in his rapture kept
changing from colour to colour.

I, however, with a view of reconsidering the
subject, proceeded to say, Well, if there is a
difference between that which belongs to us
and that which is like, we are now, I conceive,
in a condition to say what is meant by a friend ;
but if they happen to be the same, it s no such
easy matter to get rid of our former assertion,
that like was useless to like, in so far as it was
like ; for to admit ourselves friendly with that
which is useless, were outrageous. What say
you then, said I, since we are, as it were, in
toxicated by our talk, to our allowing that there
is a difference between that which belongs and
that which is like ?

Let us do so by all means, he replied.

Shall we further say, that good belongs to
every one, and that to every one evil is a
stranger ; or rather, that good belongs to good,
evil to evil, and that which is neither evil nor
good, to that which is of the same nature ?

They both agreed that the latter was their
opinion in each particular.

It appears then, said I, that we have fallen

LYSIS

161

again into positions with regard to friendship,
which we previously rejected. For, according
to our present admission, the unjust will be no
less friendly to the unjust, and the evil no less
friendly to the evil, than the good to the
good.

So it would appear, said he.

And again, said I, if we assert, that what is
good, and what belongs to us, are one and the
same, will it not result that none are friendly
with the good but the good ? And this too, I
think, is a position in which we imagined that
we proved ourselves wrong. Don t you re
member ?

Oh yes, they both cried.

What other way then is left us of treating
the subject? Clearly none. I therefore, like
our clever pleaders at the bar, request you to
reckon up all that I have said. If neither those
who love or are loved, neither the like nor the
unlike, nor the good, nor those who belong to
us, nor any other of all the suppositions which
we passed in review they are so numerous
that I can remember no more if, I say, not
one of them is the object of friendship I no
longer know what I am to say.

With this confession, I was just on the point
of rousing to my aid one of the elders of our
party, when all of a sudden, like beings of
another world, there came down upon us the
attendants of Menexenus and Lysis, holding
their brothers by the hand, and calling out to
the young gentlemen to come home, as it was
II

162

already late. At first, both we and the by
standers were for driving them off ; but rinding
that they did not mind us at all, but grumbled
at us in sad Greek, and persisted in calling the
boys ; fancying moreover that from having
tippled at the feast they would prove awkward
people to deal with, we owned ourselves van
quished, and broke up the party.

However, just as they were leaving, I managed
to call out, Well, Lysis and Menexenus, we
have made ourselves rather ridiculous to-day,
I, an old man, and you, children. For our
hearers here will carry away the report, that
though we conceive ourselves to be friends with
each other you see I class myself with you
we have not as yet been able to discover what
we mean by a friend.

PROTAGORAS

SUMMARY OF THE
PROTAGORAS

SOCRATES meets an acquaintance in the streets of 309
Athens, and tells him that he has just been talking with
the great Sophist Protagoras. The acquaintance, much
interested, begs for a detailed account of the conversa
tion ; and Socrates, nothing loth, begins.

This morning, he says, before it was light, our young 310
friend Hippocrates so eager was he came rushing
into my house to tell me the grand news that Hippo
crates was come to Athens, and to beg me to introduce
him as a pupil to the great man, who was staying, he
said, with Callias, the son of Hipponicus. I rose and
went with him, but took occasion on the way to sift my
young friend ; to elicit from him what he wanted to be
come by taking lessons from Protagoras ; and to warn
him of the terrible risk he ran by committing his soul
into the charge of a person, of whom he knew so little,
as he did of this money-making stranger.

Thus talking we arrived at the house ; and there we 315
found Protagoras parading in a portico, accompanied
by Callias our host, the sons of Pericles, and a few
other distinguished men, and followed in his walk by
a train of worshippers. In other parts of the house
were Hippias of Elis, and Prodicus of Ceos, each with
an admiring eoterie ; and just after us Alcibiades came
in with Critias, the son of Callceschrus. But soon we
all gathered into one room, and formed a sort of divan
round Protagoras.

I began by introducing Hippocrates. And please 318

1 66 PROTAGORAS

tell us, 1 I added, what you will make of him ? Prota
goras replied, A better man. No doubt ; but in
what will he be better? He will be better able to
manage his own affairs and those of the State. You
profess then as a Sophist, I said, to make him a good
citizen? Precisely so, 1 he replied. A glorious
profession truly, I rejoined ; but can such virtue be
taught ? For my part, I doubt ; firstly, because the
State allows men, who have never been taught politics,
to give advice on public affairs, though it would never
allow a man, who knew nothing of carpentering, to give
advice on the same ; secondly, because our best citi
zens, as Pericles for instance, have not been able to im
part their virtues to their children.

320 To these objections Protagoras replied at some
length, I will begin, he said, with the story of
Prometheus and Epimetheus on the origin of man.
Prometheus, as you know, distributed the arts of life
among men, giving skill in each only to a favoured few.
But these arts not proving sufficient to keep men alive
in their struggle with wild beasts and with each other,
Zeus afterwards sent Hermes to them with Justice and
the Sense of Shame, ordering him not to impart them to
a few only, but to spread them broadcast among men.
For without a portion of these, he said, in the heart of
every man, human society cannot hold together. And
so strongly is this felt now that, while a man is thought
a madman for professing skill on the flute if he cannot
play the flute, he is equally thought a madman for pro
fessing to be unjust, though he really be so. This
then is my answer to your objection, that only profes
sionals are allowed to speak with authority on the arts ;
whereas all men, be they tinkers or cobblers, are invited
to discuss a question of political virtue.

323 Secondly. That virtue can be taught is shown by
the very idea of punishment. We punish that we may
make the criminal better, and deter others from crime.
What is this but teaching virtue ?

324 Thirdly. You object that good men don t teach their
sons to be good. But, though the teaching may not be
successful, the sons most assuredly are taught. From

PROTAGORAS 167

the very moment they are born they are taught virtue by
some one, by mother or nurse, by tutor or father ; and
when they are sent to school, nothing is held of so much
account as good conduct ; and when they have left
school, the State takes them in hand, and leads them by
its laws on the same lines. It is true that they don t
always turn out well ; that good fathers, as you say,
don t always have good sons. But that is the fault of
nature rather than of teaching. If everybody learnt to
play the flute, the sons of the best flute-players would
not necessarily play the flute best, but those who had a
natural taste for flute-playing. And so with political
virtue at Athens. The most virtuous men will not
necessarily be the sons of the most virtuous, but those
who have the best natural disposition to virtue. Still
the worst men among us the most worthless dema
gogues of the day will have more idea of virtue than
the untaught savage who has never heard of virtue at
all. No, Socrates, it is not true that virtue cannot be
taught ; it is not true that there are no teachers of
virtue. On the contrary, we are all teachers. Only it
so happens that I am rather better than most, and
therefore can earn a higher fee.

With these words the orator ceased, and I sat en- 328
chanted. Recovering myself, however, I congratulated
him on the almost unique power he possessed, not only
of making long speeches, but also of answering ques
tions point by point. So I proceeded to try him with a
question or two. Protagoras, I said, you have
spoken of virtue. Is virtue one or many ? Are the
several virtues parts of a whole, or different names of
the same thing? 1 Parts of a whole, he replied;
1 much in the same way as the nose and mouth, for
instance, are parts of the face. And they are unlike
each other, much as the parts of the face are unlike each
other. But, I asked, is it not the nature of justice
to be just, and of holiness to be holy? If then justice
and holiness are unlike each other, justice is unholy and
holiness unjust. Protagoras could not agree to this;
and seeing he was vexed, I left this point, and went on
to another.

1 68 PROTAGORAS

332 YOU said, I think, that the several virtues were dis
tinct ; wisdom, for instance, and discretion. Now, do
you admit that each thing has only one opposite? I
do. 1 Well then, folly has wisdom for its opposite ;
but what of acting discreetly is that foolish ? Cer
tainly not. Then discretion is opposite to folly?
Apparently. Then folly, it seems, has her oppo-
sites, discretion and wisdom ; but as one thing has only
one opposite, it follows that discretion and wisdom are
the same ; and therefore you were mistaken in saying
they were distinct.

334 I was proceeding to make him admit that there was
not much distinction either between justice and discre
tion : but our friend, nettled by the results of my ques -
tioning, branched off into a rhetorical display on the
nature of Good, which the audience received with much
applause. So, finding I could not keep him to the
point, and pleading my inability to follow a long speech,
I rose to depart ; but was detained by our host, who was
good enough to say that my going would spoil the party,
but at the same time maintained that it was unreason
able in me to refuse to Protagoras the liberty which
I claimed myself ; namely, that each of us should speak
as he liked.

On this Alcibiades rushed to my rescue, and others
took part in the debate ; Critias, in a few words, advis
ing mutual concession ; Prodicus making a sententious
harangue, enlivened with his favourite verbal distinc
tions ; and Hippias proposing an umpire. To this I
demurred ; but I was ready, I said, to answer any ques
tion that Protagoras might like to ask, if he in turn
would answer me. And to this he reluctantly agreed.

339 Socrates, he began, I propose transferring our
discussion on virtue to the region of Poetry. You know
Simonides of Ceos. He says, if you remember, in
one of his poems, Tis hard to become good. " Is he
correct in saying so? Yes, I replied. And yet he
reproaches Pittacus with saying, "Tis hard to be
good." Surely in this there is some contradiction?
To meet this attack I called on Prodicus, a Cean him
self, to come to the aid of his countryman ; and, sup-

PROTAGORAS 169

ported by him, I showed there was no contradiction, as
there was a difference between being and becoming.
And Pittacus would gladly have backed me up in other
verbal refinements, as, for instance, on the meaning of
the word hard, only I offered instead to give my own
notion of the real aim of Simonides in writing the
poem ; a proposal which met with general assent.

So I began : Those great old philosophers, the ,342
Lacedemonians for great philosophers they were and
arc, though the fact is not generally known held pith
and brevity to be the soul of philosophy. And it was
in admiration of this Lacedaemonian model that the
Seven Sages uttered their brief and memorable sayings ;
among whom Pittacus of Mitylene won great fame
by his contribution, " Tis hard to be good." But
Simonides, thinking that he would make a reputation
at once by attacking and demolishing so venerable a
dictum, wrote his entire poem against it, showing that
Pittacus was wrong in using the word " l>e," for to the
gods alone is it possible to be good. He ought instead
to have said " become ; " as for a man to become good
is hard indeed, but not impossible.

When I had finished my exposition of the poem, 347
Hippias wished to favour us with one of his own ; but
Alcibiades insisted that the original discussion should be
resumed. So after begging Protagoras to drop the
poets, who deserved, I said, no more than flute-girls to
be admitted into the social intercourse of gentlemen and
scholars ; and after complimenting Protagoras on his
well-merited eminence as a teacher of wisdom, I went
back to the former question, whether the virtues were
one or many.

And in reply to this Protagoras seemed now to admit 349
that of the five virtues wisdom, discretion, courage,
justice, and holiness four were pretty much alike ; but
that the fifth, courage, was very different from the rest.
But, said I, are not the courageous daring? And
are not men daring in that of which they have know
ledge or wisdom, as diving, for instance, or riding, or
Shooting ? And does not this show that courage and
knowledge, or wisdom, are pretty nearly the same?

1 70 PROTAGORAS

This conclusion, however, he tried to evade by a fluent
harangue on the distinction we should draw between
courage and daring.

351 So I proceeded to approach him from another side.
Is pleasure, I asked, the only good, and pain the
only evil ? He did not seem to consider this definition
quite moral, but would rather say, with men in general,
that some pleasures were good, and some pains evil.
Let us look into the question, I said, more closely,
and perhaps this may help us to solve it. We have
been speaking of knowledge. Do you agree too with
men generally in thinking that knowledge is often over
powered by passion ? or do you consider knowledge to
be power? Certainly I do, he replied, and of all
things the most powerful. But this is not the common
opinion, I urged. It is generally thought that men,
who know what is best, are yet often induced by pleasure
or passion to act contrary to their knowledge. Such,
indeed, is the opinion of the world ; but it is not mine,
nor, should I say, is it yours, Protagoras. You and I
think do we not ? that pleasure, so far as it pleases,
is certainly good ; it is only an evil, because it may end
in pain. And pain, on the other hand, so far as it is
painful, is certainly evil ; it is only good because it may
end in pleasure. Thus pleasure and good are really
identical, and so are pain and evil. Only a measuring
art is wanted to measure the exact results of an act. If
in the long run the act produces more pleasure than
pain, then it is good ; if more pain than pleasure, then
it is evil. And this measuring art is a sort of know
ledge : and thus knowledge is found to be that which
governs life, and ignorance to be the source of evil.
And now let us apply this result of ours to courage. If
it is only through ignorance of what is best that men
choose the evil and refuse the good, then the reason
why cowards refuse to go to war is simply because they
form a wrong estimate, and the reason why the brave
are ready to go to war is simply because they form a
right estimate, of that which ought really to be feared.
What then is courage but knowledge, and what is
cowardice but ignorance? And thus the five virtues,

PROTAGORAS

171

which you maintained at first to be different, are now
seen to be only one. And to this conclusion Protagoras
could not but assent.

I then proceeded to notice the whimsical change of 361
front which had taken place in our controversy. You,
Protagoras, I said, maintained, and I denied, that
virtue could be taught. But now I have shown that .
virtue is knowledge, which is of all things the most
teachable; while you, Protagoras, have argued that virtue
is not knowledge, which is almost the same as saying
that it cannot be taught. Now, I cannot say that this
is a satisfactory result, and should like, if you have no
objection, to probe the matter more deeply. But
Protagoras, with a few kind words on my earnestness
and skill in discussion, pleaded another engagement ;
and so our party broke up.

PROTAGORAS

SOCRATES AND FRIEND

Friend. Ha, Socrates, where do you appear
from ? though I can hardly doubt that it~ fs
from a chase after the fair Alcibiades. Well,
I saw the man only the other day, and I can
assure you I thought him looking still beautiful ;
though between ourselves, Socrates, he is a man
by this time, and his chin is getting pretty well
covered with beard.

Soc. And what of that ? Sure you don t
disapprove of Homer s assertion, that no age
is so graceful as the beardling s prime. And
this is just the age of Alcibiades.

Fr. Be that as it may, Socrates, I want to
know about matters now. Is it from him that
you make your appearance, and how is the
youth disposed towards you ?

Soc. Very well, I think, and never better
than to-day. For he has been taking my side,
and saying a great deal in my favour. And in
point of fact, I have only just left him. I have,
however, something strange to tell you. Though
he was in the room all the while, he was so far

174 PROTAGORAS

from engrossing my attention, that I frequently
forgot his existence altogether.

Fr. Why, whatever can have happened be
tween you and him, to produce such an effect
as this ? You surely don t mean to say that
you have met with any one more beautiful here
in Athens ?

Soc. Yes I do, much more beautiful.

Fr. More beautiful! a citizen or a foreigner?

Soc. A foreigner.

Fr. From what country ?

Soc. Abdera.

Fr. And did this stranger really appear to
you so beautiful a person, that you accounted
him more beautiful than the son of Clinias ?

Soc. Indeed he did. For how, my good
friend, can the supremely wise fail of being
accounted more beautiful ?

Fr. Ho, ho, Socrates, you have just left one
of our wise men, have you ?

Soc. Say, rather, the wisest man of the pre
sent day, unless you would refuse this title to
Protagoras.

Fr. Protagoras, do you say ? is he in
Athens ?

Soc. He is, and has been here now two days.

Fr. And you are just come, I suppose, from
31O his company ?

Soc. Yes, and from a very long conversa
tion with him.

Fr. Oh pray repeat it to us then, unless you
have something to hinder you. Just turn out
this boy, and sit down in his place.

PROTAGORAS 175

Soc. With all my heart ; and I shall be
much obliged to you for listening.

Fr. And I am sure we shall be so to you
for speaking.

Soc. The obligation then will be mutual.
I will therefore begin.

Last night, or rather very early this morning,
Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus, and brother
of Phason, came and knocked very violently at
my door with his stick ; and, as soon as they
opened to him, rushed into the house in the
greatest haste, calling out with a loud voice,
Socrates, are you awake or asleep ? Recog
nising his voice, I said to myself, Ho, Hippo
crates here ; turning to him, Have you any
news ?

None but what is good, he answered.

So much the better, I rejoined. But what is
the matter ; what has made you come here so
early ?

Protagoras is arrived ; said he, standing by
my side.

Yes, the day before yesterday, I replied ;
have you only just heard it ?

Only just, I assure you, only last night.
While thus speaking, he felt about the bed on
which I lay, and sitting down at my feet, con
tinued, Only yesterday evening, on my return
at a very late hour from Q{noe. For my slave
Satyrus ran away ; and I was just going to tell
you that I meant to pursue him, when some
thing else came into my head, and I forgot it.
And when I came back, it was not till we had

176 PROTAGORAS

supped and were going to bed, that my brother
informed me of the arrival of Protagoras.
Whereupon, late as it was, I started up with
the intention of coming immediately to you,
but on second thoughts it seemed too far gone
in the night. As soon, however, as sleep re
leased me after my fatigue, I rose up at once
and hurried here.

On hearing this, being well acquainted with
my friend s vehement and excitable nature, I
said to him, Well, what does this matter to
you ? does Protagoras do you any harm ?

Yes, that he does, said he with a laugh ; he
keeps his wisdom to himself, and does not
make me wise.

But I have no doubt, said I, that if you only
give him money enough, he will make you wise
too.

I would, ye gods ! he cried, it only depended
on this ; if it did, I would not spare the last
farthing of my own fortune, or of my friends
either. But in point of fact, Socrates, the very
object I have in coming here now is to ask you
to speak to him on my behalf. For, to say
nothing of my being so young, I have never
even seen Protagoras in my life, or heard him
speak ; for I was quite a boy when he was here
before. However, all the world applaud the
311 man, and say that he is wonderfully clever in
discourse. So pray let us go to him at once,
that we may find him in doors. He is staying,
I am told, with Callias, the son of Hipponicus.
Let us start.

PROTAGORAS ,77

Not yet, said I, it is too early. Rather let
us turn into the court here, and walk about and
talk, till it is light. And then we can go. For
Protagoras seldom stirs out ; so that you need
not be afraid, we shall in all probability find
him at home.

After this we rose up from the bed, and went
out into the court. And while we were walking
up and down, with a view of trying the strength
of Hippocrates, I sifted him with the following
questions. Hippocrates, said I, you are now
proposing to call upon Protagoras, and pay him
a sum of money as a fee for your attendance.
Now tell me ; in what capacity, on his part, do
you mean to visit him, and what do you expect
to become yourself by so doing? Take a
similar case. If you had conceived the idea of
going to your namesake Hippocrates of Cos, of
the house of the Asclepiads, and paying him a
sum of money as a fee for your tuition ; and if
you were to be asked what Hippocrates was,
that you meant to pay him this money, what
should you answer ?

(I should say, he replied, a physician.
And what do you expect to become ?
A physician, he answered.
Again, if you had taken it into your head to
go to Polyclitus of Argos or our Athenian
Phidias, and pay them a fee for your tuition,
and you were to be asked, what Polyclitus and
Phidias were, that you intended to pay them
this money, what should you reply ?
Statuaries, of course.

N

i 7 8 PROTAGORAS

And what do you expect to become yourself?

A statuary, to be sure.

Well, said I, here are you and I now going
to Protagoras ; and when arrived there we
shall be prepared to pay him a sum of money
as a fee for your tuition. If our own funds
prove adequate to his demand, so much the
better ; if they are deficient, we shall not
hesitate to drain the purses of our friends.
Now, suppose some man were to see us thus
earnestly bent on the matter, and to say, My
good friends, Socrates and Hippocrates, what
do you mean to pay Protagoras as ? Tell me,
what would be our answer to this question ?
What distinct name is currently given to Pro
tagoras, in the same way that the name of
statuary is given to Phidias, and of poet to
Homer? what analogous designation do we
hear applied to Protagoras ?

Well, there is no denying, he replied, that
men do call our friend a sophist.

It is then, I suppose, as a sophist that we
are going to pay him our monies.

Yes.

Now, suppose you were further asked, And
312 what do you expect to become yourself, that
you go to Protagoras ? At this he blushed.
By this time there was just a glimpse of day,
so that I could see his face. Why, said he, if
this be at all like the two former cases, it is
clear that I must expect to become a
sophist.

And should not you, I solemnly asked, be

PROTAGORAS 179

ashamed of showing yourself as a sophist in the
eyes of Greece ?

Yes, Socrates, I certainly should, if I must
speak what I really think.

But possibly, Hippocrates, you are of opinion
that the instructions to be afforded by Prota
goras will not be given on this sort of principle,
but rather resemble those you received from
your masters in writing and music and gym
nastics. For you were instructed in each of
these latter professions, not with a view of
becoming a craftsman therein yourself, but of
obtaining the education which is deemed proper
for an unprofessional gentleman.

Yes, Socrates, said he, I am quite of opinion
that this is rather the character of Protagoras s
instructions.

Are you aware then, I asked, what you are
now about to do, or are you blind ?

To what ?

Blind to the fact, that you are about to con
sign your soul to the care of a man, who is,
you say, a sophist, while what in the world
such sophist is, you know not, or I am much
surprised. And yet, if you know not this,
neither do you know to what you are abandon
ing your soul, whether it be to a good or an
evil thing.

I think I know, he answered.

Well, what do you think a sophist means ?

I think, said he, as the name imports, that
it means a man who is learned in wisdom.

Yes, said I, but as much may be said for

i8o PROTAGORAS

painters and architects ; they also may be de
scribed as men learned in wisdom. But if we
were asked, what the wisdom is in which
painters are learned, we should doubtless say,
In that which relates to the production of
pictures. And so for the rest. But if we were
to be further asked, What is the wisdom in
which a sophist is learned ? what is the pro
duction that he superintends ? what would be
our reply ?

Why, what else should it be, Socrates, but
I that he superintends the production of an able
speaker ?

If so, said I, our answer might possibly be
true, but certainly not sufficient. For it would
draw on us the further inquiry, But what is the
subject on which the sophist makes a man able
to speak ? The musician makes his pupil able
to speak on the subject in which it makes him
learned ; in music, that is ; does he not ?

He does.

Well, said I, what is the subject on which
the sophist makes a man able to speak ?
obviously on that in which he makes him
learned, is it not ?

One would expect so, at any rate.

What then, I proceeded, is that, in which the
sophist is both learned himself, and makes his
pupil learned also ?

This, Socrates, I confess, I cannot tell you.
313 Young man, I rejoined, what are you doing?
are you aware of the danger to which you are
about to expose your soul ? If you had had

PROTAGORAS 181

occasion to entrust your body to any one s
care, at the risk of its becoming either healthy
or depraved, frequent would have been your
deliberations on the propriety of the measure ;
you would have summoned both friends and
relatives to a consultation, and taken many
days to consider the matter ; yet now, when
your soul is concerned, your soul, which you
prize far more highly than your body, and
whereon your all depends for good or ill,
according as it turns out healthy or depraved ;
when this, I say, is at stake, you communicate
neither with your father, nor your brother, nor
with any of us your friends ; you ask none of
us whether or no you ought to entrust your
soul to this stranger who is come to Athens ;
but having heard of his arrival only last even
ing, as you tell me, you come here early in the
morning, not to take thought or counsel on the
matter, but prepared to spend both your own
fortune and your friends , as if you had already
made up your mind that, come what might,
you must be the pupil of Protagoras ; a man
whom, as you admit, you are neither acquainted
with, nor have even so much as spoken to
in your life, but whom you call a sophist ;
while what this sophist is, to whom you are
about to entrust yourself, you are plainly
ignorant.

Yes, Socrates, said he ; such would appear,
from what you say, to be the case.

Hippocrates, I continued, is not a sophist a
sort of merchant, or retail dealer, in the wares

1 82 PROTAGORAS

upon which the soul subsists ? for myself, I
esteem him something of the kind.

And what does the soul subsist upon, So
crates ? he asked.

Instruction, of course, I replied ; and let us
be careful, my dear friend, that the sophist
does not impose upon us, by praising the
quality of his wares, just as is done by those
who traffic in food for the body, by the mer
chant, that is, and the tradesman. For these
dealers are ignorant, if I mistake not, of the
commodities which they supply ; they cannot
tell which article is good or bad for the body
though they praise them all alike in the sale
any more than their customers can, unless they
happen to be versed in the gymnastic or medi
cal art. And, exactly in the same way, those
who hawk about their instructions from city to
city, selling wholesale and retail to all who bid,
are in the habit of praising their whole stock
alike ; yet some of these too, my good friend,
may very likely be unable to tell us which of
their wares is good, and which bad for the
soul, while their customers will be equally
ignorant, unless here again there chance to
be among them some skilled in the medicine of
the soul. If then you happen to be a judge of
these matters, and can say which is good, and
which is bad, there is no danger in your buy
ing instructions from Protagoras, or any other
person whatever ; but if not, then have a care,
314 my good Hippocrates, that you do not stake
and imperil your dearest treasure. For, I

PROTAGORAS 183

can assure you, there is a far greater risk in
the purchase of instruction than in that of food.
When you buy meat and drink from the trades
man or merchant, you may carry them away in
other vessels ; and before admitting them into
your body, by eating or drinking, you may lay
them down in your house, and, calling in
qualified advisers, consult what is fit to be
eaten or drunk, and what to be rejected ; what,
moreover, is the proper quantity that may be
taken, and what the proper time for taking it.
So that in this purchase the danger is not great.
But instruction you cannot possibly carry away
in another vessel ; as soon as you have paid
down the price, you must of necessity receive
the instruction in your soul itself; and when
you have learnt it, go home a worse, or a better
man. Let us, therefore, take advice on this
question with our elders, for we are still too
young to settle so great a matter. Since, how
ever, we have started the plan, let us go and
hear our sophist, and afterwards confer with
others on what we have heard ; for, beside
Protagoras, we shall find there Hippias of Elis,
and, I think, also Prodicus of Ceos, and many
other learned professors.

This resolution taken, we set out on our
expedition. When arrived at the porch, we
stopped to discuss a question which had fallen
out between us on the road, and which we
wished to bring to a satisfactory conclusion
before entering the house. Accordingly we
stood talking in the porch till we had settled

i 84 PROTAGORAS

the matter. Now the porter, an eunuch, must,
I imagine, have overheard us ; and I am in
clined to think that, on account of the multi
tude of sophist-callers, he feels disgust for all
who come to the house. At any rate, when
we had knocked at the door, and he had
opened it, and caught sight of us, Bah! he
cried out, more sophists, I declare. My
master s engaged. At the same time, with
both his hands, he slammed the door in our
faces, with all the will in the world. So we
knocked again; but our friend, without open
ing, called out, Sirs, have you not heard that
my master is engaged ? But, good porter, I
urged, we are neither come to call upon
Callias, nor are we sophists ; so cheer up.
It is Protagoras that we want to see, take in
our names. At length, with the greatest diffi
culty, we prevailed on the fellow to open us
the door.

On entering, we found Protagoras walking
up and down one of the porticoes. And, in
the same line with him, there walked on one
315 side Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and his
half-brother Paralus, the son of Pericles, and
Charmides, the son of Glaucon ; on the other
there was Pericles other son, Xanthippus, and
Philippides, the son of Philomelus ; and, more
over, Antimcerus of Mende, who enjoys the
greatest reputation of all Protagoras s pupils,
and is taking lessons professionally, with the
view of becoming a sophist himself. Behind
these distinguished individuals there followed a

PROTAGORAS 185

crowd of listeners, composed principally, as it
appeared to me, of the foreigners whom Prota
goras sweeps with him from the several cities
he passes through, luring them, like an
Orpheus, with his voice, and they follow at
the sound, enchanted. There were, however,
among them some of our own countrymen as
well. On looking at this attendant band, I
was particularly charmed to observe the excel
lent care they took never to get into the way of
Protagoras. The moment the great master
and his party turned, deftly and daintily did
these gentlemen file off to the right and left,
and, wheeling round, take their places, on each
occasion, behind him, in the prettiest order.

Next after him my eyes observed, as Homer
has it, Hippias of Elis, sitting in the opposite
portico on a high chair ; and on stools around
him I remarked Eryximachus the son of Acu-
menus, Phoedrus of Myrrhine, and Andron the
son of Androtion, beside a number of foreigners
from his own town of Elis and other cities.
And they appeared to be plying him with
questions on natural science, and especially on
astronomy, while he, sitting aloft on his throne,
was dispensing to them their several answers,
and explaining all their difficulties.

There too, moreover, I beheld a Tantalus ;
for Prodicus of Ceos had lately come to Athens.
Now this professor was established in a small
room which Hipponicus had been in the habit
of using as a store closet. On the present
occasion, however, Callias has been forced, by

1 86 PROTAGORAS

the influx of guests, to empty it of its contents
and turn it into a spare bedchamber. / Here
then was Prodicus, still in bed, and wrapped
up in what appeared to be a great quantity of
sheepskins and blankets. On sofas near him
were sitting Pausanias of Ceramis, and close
by the side of Pausanias a young lad of a
noble disposition, as far as I could judge, and
certainly of a most beautiful form. I thought
I heard his name was Agathon, and I should
not be surprised if he turns out to be Pau-
sanias s favourite. Beside this stripling there
were the two Adimantuses, sons of Cepis and
Leucolophides, and some others. But what
they were talking about I was unable to catch
from the outside, notwithstanding my intense
anxiety to hear Prodicus, so supremely, nay
divinely, clever do I account the man ; for the
316 gruffness of his voice caused a kind of buzzing
in the room, which rendered all he said indis
tinct. We had not been long in the house,
when there came in after us Alcibiades the
fair, as you call him with my full assent, and
Critias the son of Callaeschrus.

After we had spent a few minutes in noticing
the particulars I have mentioned, we walked up
to Protagoras, and I said, Protagoras, it is to
see you that I and my friend Hippocrates here
have called.

Would you like, said he, to speak with me
alone, or before the rest ?

To us, I replied, it makes no difference in
the world ; when you have heard our object in

PROTAGORAS 187

coming, you can judge for yourself. Well,
what is your object ? he asked.

Hippocrates, said I, presenting him, is a
native of Athens, son of Apollodorus, of a great
and wealthy house. For himself, he is con
sidered in point of natural ability a fair match
for the youth of his age : and he is desirous, I
believe, of making a figure in the state, a result
which he expects more readily to attain by
attaching himself to you. Now then that you
have heard our errand, consider whether it
ought to be discussed between ourselves alone,
or in public.

You do well, Socrates, he answered, to take
these precautions in my behalf. When a
stranger visits powerful cities, and in each of
them calls upon the flower of the youth to
abandon the society of their countrymen, both
related and not related, both old and young,
and attach themselves solely to him, in the
hope of becoming better by such intercourse ;
when he does this, I say, he cannot take too
many precautions ; for his course is attended
by no slight jealousy, by ill-will, moreover, and
actual plots. Now the trade of sophist is, I
maintain, of ancient date ; but its professors in
ancient times were so afraid of this odium ever
attaching to it, that they uniformly covered it
with an assumed disguise. Some among them
veiled it under poetry, as Homer, Hesiod, and
Simonides ; others, again, under mystic rites
and prophetic inspiration, like Orpheus, Mu-
sceus, and their followers. I have heard of

i88 PROTAGORAS

others putting forward even the gymnastic art,
as a screen; Iccus of Tarentum, for instance,
and that sophist of the present day, who is in
ferior to none of his contemporaries, Herodicus
of Selymbria, and formerly of Megara. Music,
again, was the cover assumed by your own
countryman, Agathocles, a very eminent
sophist, by Pythoclides of Ceos, and a num
ber of others. Now it was, I repeat, for fear
of becoming generally odious, that all these
distinguished sophists shrouded their one trade
beneath the veil of the several arts I have
317 mentioned. But I, for my part, differ from
them all, so far as this concealment is con
cerned. For I conceive that they were very
far from attaining the object they desired, inas
much as their secret was discovered by men of
authority in their respective states, that is to
say, by the very men to deceive whom these
disguises were assumed ; since the vulgar herd
may be said to perceive nothing at all of them
selves, but merely to echo the opinions which
the former promulgate. Now, whenever a man
attempts to escape, and instead of succeeding
is caught in the act, he is not only thought a
great fool for his pains, but necessarily renders
himself still more obnoxious than before : for
men consider that such a person adds knavery
to his other delinquencies. On such grounds,
then, the course I have pursued has been
exactly the opposite to this. I have ever
avowed myself a sophist and a teacher of
youth ; and I esteem this precaution of mine

PROTAGORAS 189

to be more effectual than theirs, avowal, that
is to say, I esteem safer than denial. Added
to this, I have devised other precautions, so
that, thanks be to Heaven, no harm has ever
come to me from avowing my profession. Yet
I have now been engaged in it many years, as
may well be the case, considering the number
I have lived altogether so many that there is
not one among you, whose father I am not old
enough to be. I shall therefore consider it
far more agreeable, if you -do not object, to
discuss your errand in the presence of all the
inmates of the house. On hearing this, I at
once suspected that he had a mind to parade
us before Prodicus and Hippias, and make it
appear that we had come as his ardent ad
mirers. Accordingly I said, Why don t we
then summon Prodicus and Hippias to come
with their followers, and listen to our conversa
tion?

Let us do so by all means, he replied.

What say you, suggested Callias, to our
making a regular divan, so that you may talk
sitting ? His proposal being accepted, we all
set to work with delight at the idea of listening
to such clever men, and with our own hands
seized on the stools and sofas, and ranged
them in order by the side of Hippias, as the
stools were already in his neighbourhood.
Before we had finished, Callias and Alcibiades,
who had gone to fetch Prodicus, returned with
him and his coterie, having succeeded in
getting the professor out of bed.

190 PROTAGORAS

As soon as we had all taken our seats, Pro
tagoras began. Now then, Socrates, said he,
that these gentlemen have joined our party, you
had better repeat what you mentioned to me
a few minutes ago, with regard to this young
man.

318 I open my account of our errand, said I, in
the same way as I did before. I present to
you my friend Hippocrates, who is possessed
with a desire of becoming your disciple, and
would be glad, he says, to hear what advan
tages he may expect to derive from your
tuition. So much for our part of the busi
ness. In answer to this, Protagoras said to
Hippocrates, My young friend, if you are to be
my disciple, you will find that on the very day
of your becoming such, you will go home a
better man than you came ; on the second day
the result will be similar, and each succeeding
day will be marked with the same gradual im
provement.

But, Protagoras, I replied, there is nothing
wonderful in this promise of yours ; it is only
what may naturally be expected. Since I am
sure that even you yourself, advanced in years
and wisdom as you are, could not fail of being
improved by receiving information on a subject
with which you might possibly chance to be
unacquainted. No, this is not the sort of
answer we want ; but something of the follow
ing kind. Suppose our friend here were ere
long to take a new fancy into his head, and
conceive the desire of attaching himself to the

PROTAGORAS 191

young painter, Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who has
lately come to Athens, and were to make the
same application to him, that he is now making
to you, and were to hear from him in reply,
exactly as he has heard from you, that each
day of his attendance would be marked by
fresh improvement and progress. If our
youth, however, not content with this answer,
were further to inquire, In what do you mean
that I shall improve, and wherein shall I make
progress ? Zeuxippus would say, In painting.
And so, if on applying to Orthagoras of Thebes,
and hearing from him the same answer that he
hears from you, he were to proceed to ask,
what would be the particular point in which he
would daily improve by his daily attendance ?
the flute-player would reply, In playing the flute.
This then is the kind of answer I wish you to
give to Hippocrates, and to me who am ques
tioning you on his behalf.

If my friend here becomes a pupil of yours,
Protagoras, he will go home on the first day of
his attendance a better man than he came, and
on each succeeding day he will make similar
progress to what, Protagoras ? In what will
he improve ?

Socrates, he answered, your question is a
fair one, and I delight in answering fair ques
tions. If Hippocrates comes to me, he will not
be served as he would be served if he were to
attach himself to any other sophist. Sophists
in general misuse their pupils sadly. Just
escaped as the lads are from their school-

192 PROTAGORAS

studies, these teachers drive them back again,
sorely against their will, into the old routine,
and give them lessons (while saying this, he
glanced at Hippias) in arithmetic, astronomy,
geometry, and music ; whereas, if a youth
comes to me, he will receive instruction on no
other subject than that which he is come to
learn. And what he will learn is this : such
prudence in domestic concerns as will best
enable him to regulate his own household ;
319 such wisdom in public affairs as will besT
qualify him for becoming a statesman and
orator.

I wonder, said I, whether I follow your
meaning : I understand you to speak of the
political art, and that you undertake to make
men good citizens.

This is exactly the profession I do make,
Socrates, he replied.

Glorious truly then, said I, is the art you
possess, if so be that you do possess it ; for to
a man like you I will say nothing else than
what I really think. Since for my part, Prota
goras, I always imagined that this art was not
capable of being taught, but when you say it
is, I know not how to disbelieve you. My
reasons, however, for believing that it cannot
be taught, or communicated from man to man,
I am bound to declare. I hold, as all Greece
holds, that the Athenians are a wise people.
Now, I observe in all our meetings in the
assembly, that whenever there is occasion to
transact any public business connected with

PROTAGORAS 193

house-building, they invariably send for house-
builders, to advise them on the matter ; when
ever connected with shipbuilding, for ship
builders ; and the same practice is observed
with regard to all the arts which they consider
capable of being learnt and taught. But
should any individual, whom they believe to be
no member of the trade in question, obtrude
his advice on the matter, be he ever so beauti
ful, or wealthy, or high-born, they do not a
whit the more allow him a hearing on this
account, but shower on him jeers and hisses,
till our would-be speaker either gives way of
himself to this storm of clamour, or is pulled
down from the bema by the bowmen, and
turned out of the house by command of the
prytanes. Such then is the course they pursue
with all business which they consider belongs
to a craft. But whenever a matter connected
with the public administration requires discus
sion, up starts any member who pleases, and
proffers them his advice, no matter whether he
be carpenter, smith, or shoemaker, merchant or
skipper, rich or poor, high or low. And in
this case no one thinks, as in the former, of
objecting to the speaker, that without having
received instruction from any quarter, without
having any teacher to show, he yet presumes
to offer advice ; clearly, because they all believe
that this knowledge is not capable of being
taught. Nay, not only is public business con
ducted on this principle, but in private life we
see our best and wisest citizens unable to
o

194 PROTAGORAS

impart to others the excellence which them
selves possess. Take, for example, Pericles,
the father of these two young men. In all
that a master could teach, he has educated
320 them liberally, and well ; but in his own
wisdom he neither instructs them himself, nor
sends them anywhere else to be instructed ;
but, like oxen consecrated to the gods, they are
left to roam and pasture at will, if haply some
where or other they may light by good fortune
on virtue. Do you wish another case ? There
is Clinias, the younger brother of our friend
here, Alcibiades. His guardian, this same
Pericles, for fear, as he said, of his being
corrupted by Alcibiades, tore him from the
society of the latter, and placed him in Ari-
phron s house to be educated. But he had not
been there six months before Ariphron restored
him to his guardian, as not being able to make
anything of him. And so I could cite instance
upon instance of men, who, good themselves,
have been unable to render better either their
own sons or other people s ; and it is, Prota
goras, from the observation of such instances
as these that I have been led to the belief, that
virtue is not a thing that can be taught. Now,
however, that I hear you maintain the contrary,
that belief is shaken, and I am inclined to
think that there must be something in what
you say ; since I esteem you a man of vast
experience, of extensive acquirements, and no
inconsiderable invention. If therefore you
are able to make it clear by demonstration,

PROTAGORAS 195

that the nature of virtue admits of its being
taught, do not grudge us, I beseech you, your
proof.

No, Socrates, I will not, he replied. But
say, should you prefer me, as beseems an elder
when addressing his juniors, to convey my
proof in the form of a mythical story, or to go
through it step by step in a serious discussion ?
Many of the party calling out in reply, that he
might do whichever he pleased, Well, said
he, since you leave me the choice, I think it
pleasanter to tell you a story.

There was once a time when, though gods
were, mortal races were not. But when there
came, by law of fate, a time for these too to be
created, the gods fashioned them in the bowels
of the earth, out of a mixture of earth and fire,
and substances which combine the two. And
when they were ready to bring them forth to
the light, they charged Prometheus and Epi-
metheus with the office of equipping them, and
dispensing to each of them suitable endow
ments. Epimetheus, however, entreated his
brother to leave the distribution to him ; and
when I have completed my work, do you, says
he, review it.

Having obtained his request, he began to
distribute. To some he assigned strength
without speed ; others, that were weaker, he
equipped with speed. Some he furnished with
weapons ; while for those whom he left weapon
less, he devised some other endowment to save
them. Animals, which he clad with puny

196 PROTAGORAS

frames, were to find safety in the flight of their
321 wings, or subterranean retreats ; those which
he invested with size, were by this very size to
be preserved. And so throughout the whole of
the distribution he maintained the same equal
ising principle ; his object in all these con
trivances being to prevent any species from
becoming extinct. Having thus supplied them
with means of escaping mutual destruction, he
proceeded to arm them against the seasons, by
clothing them with thick furs and strong hides,
proof against winter-frost and summer-heat, and
fitted also to serve each of them, when seeking
rest, as his own proper and native bed : and
under the feet he furnished some with hoofs,
others with hair and thick and bloodless skins.
His next care was to provide them with different
kinds of food : to one class he gave herbs of
the field ; to another, fruits of trees ; to a third,
roots ; while a fourth he destined to live by
making other animals their prey. Such, how
ever, he allowed to multiply but slowly, while
their victims he compensated with fecundity,
thus ensuring preservation to the species.
Forasmuch though as Epimetheus was not
altogether wise, he unawares exhausted all the
endowments at his command on the brute
creation ; so he still had left on his hands
without provision the human family, and he
knew not what to do.

While thus embarrassed, Prometheus came
up to review his distribution, and found that,
while other animals were in all points well

PROTAGORAS 197

suited, man was left naked and barefoot, im
bedded and unarmed. Yet now the fated day
was close at hand, on which man too was to
go forth from earth to light. Prometheus
therefore, being sorely puzzled what means of
safety to devise, steals in his extremity the
inventive skill of Hephaestus and Athene, to
gether with fire ; for without fire it could
neither be acquired, nor used by any ; and
presented them to the human race.

Thus man obtained the arts of life, but the
art of polity he had not ; for it was kept in the
house of Zeus, and into the citadel, the dwel
ling of Zeus, Prometheus was not now allowed
to enter; moreover, the watchmen of Zeus
were terrible. But into the joint abode of
Athene and Hephaestus, where they worked
together at the craft they loved, he stole
unnoticed, and purloining the fiery art of
Hephaestus, and the other proper to Athene, 322
bestowed them on man ; and hence man de
rives abundance for life. But Prometheus, for
his brother s fault, was visited not long after, as
the story goes, by the penalty of his theft.

Man being thus made partaker of a divine
condition was in the first place, by reason of
his relationship to God, the only animal that
acknowledged gods, and attempted to erect to
gods altars and statues. Secondly, by his art
he soon articulated sounds and words, and
devised for himself houses, and raiment, and
shoes, and beds, and food out of the ground.

Thus furnished, men lived at first scattered

I 9 8 PROTAGORAS

here and there, but cities there were none.
So they fell a prey piecemeal to the beasts of
the field, because wherever they met them
they were weaker than they, and their mechan
ical art, though sufficient for their support, was
found unequal to the war with beasts. For as
yet they had not the art of polity, which com
prises the art of war. So they sought to
assemble together, and save their lives by
founding cities. But often as they assembled
they injured one another, for lack of the poli
tical art ; so that again they dispersed, and
again were perishing. Zeus therefore, fearing
for our race that it would be quite destroyed,
sent Hermes to take to men justice and shame,
that they might be orderers of cities, and
links to bring together friendship. Whereupon
Hermes inquired of Zeus in what manner he
was to present shame and justice to men. Am
I to dispense them, he asked, in the same way
that the arts have been dispensed ? which have
been dispensed on this wise : One man re
ceived the art of medicine for the use of many
not physicians, and so with the other crafts.
Is it thus that I am to distribute shame and
justice among men, or bestow them on all
alike ? On all alike, said Zeus ; let all par
take, for cities cannot be formed, if only a few
are to partake of them, as of other arts. Nay
more, enact a law from me, that whosoever is
incapable of partaking in shame and injustice,
be put to death as a pest to a city.

Thus you see the reason, Socrates, why the

PROTAGORAS 199

Athenians and others, when there is a question
on excellence in carpentering, or any other
manual art, conceive that few only are qualified
to advise them ; and why, if any one not of the
number of the few, presumes to offer his coun
sel, they refuse him a hearing, as you assert ;
and refuse it justly, as I maintain. But when
ever they come to a debate on political virtue, 323
which ought altogether to depend on justice
and prudence, they listen with good reason to
every speaker whatsoever, esteeming it every
man s duty to partake of this virtue, if he par
takes of no other, as otherwise no city can
exist. This, Socrates, is the true reason of
the fact. That you may not, however, fancy
yourself imposed upon, but may understand
that it is really the universal opinion, that all
men have a share of justice and political virtue
in general, receive this additional proof. In all
other kinds of excellence, for instance, if a man
professes himself skilled in playing the flute, or
in any other art whatsoever, while in reality he
is not so, he is pursued, as you observe, with
either ridicule or indignation, and his relations
come up and reprimand him as a madman.
But in the case of justice and political virtue,
albeit a man is known to be deficient in such
virtue, yet if he tells the truth of himself before
many hearers, this confession of the truth,
which in the former case was considered good
sense, is here looked upon as madness ; and it
is said that all men ought to profess to be
just, whether they are so or not, and that he

200 Pfi o TA GORAS

who does not profess it is out of his senses ; it
being necessary that every single person should
in some degree partake of justice, if he is to
live among men.

So much then to prove that on this parti
cular virtue they with good reason allow every
man to offer his advice, because they believe
that every man has a share in it ; and further,
that they consider it to be, not of natural or
spontaneous growth, but that, wherever it
exists, it is the result of teaching and study, I
will next endeavour to demonstrate. If you
take notice of all the evils which men believe
their neighbours possess by the fault of nature
or of fortune, you will observe that no one is
angry with those who are thus afflicted; no
one takes them to task; no one attempts to
instruct or correct them with a view to their
alteration for the better ; pity is the only feel
ing entertained. Who, for instance, is so un
reasonable as to visit another with any of
these modes of treatment for being ugly, or
small, or sickly ? No one, clearly, because no
one, I imagine, is ignorant that evils of this
kind, as well as their opposite advantages,
accrue to men either by nature or fortune.
Look, on the other hand, at those merits which
it is believed may be acquired by application,
exercise, and instruction ; if a man, instead of
possessing these merits, possesses the opposite
vices, here, if I mistake not, is indignation
excited, punishment inflicted, and reproof ad
ministered. Now of this kind injustice and

PROTAGORAS 201

impiety are individual instances, while the
entire opposite to political virtue composes 324
the class. And for this every man is angry
with his neighbour, every man takes his neigh
bour to task, clearly because every man believes
that it is acquired by education and habit.
Nay, Socrates, if you will but observe the pur
port of punishment, it will itself teach you that in
the opinion of the world, at any rate, virtue is
a thing capable of being acquired. No one
when punishing a criminal directs his thought
to the fact, or punishes him for the fact, of his
having committed the crime, unless he be pur
suing his victim with the blind vengeance of a
reasonless brute. No, he that would punish
with reason, punishes not on account of the
past offence for what has been done he surely
cannot undo but for the sake of the future,
in order that the offender himself, and all who
have witnessed his punishment, may be pre
vented from offending hereafter. And if he con
ceives such a notion as this, he also conceives
the notion that virtue may be taught ; at any rate
he punishes with a view of deterring from vice.
This, therefore, is the opinion entertained by all
who inflict punishment, either in a private or pub
lic capacity. Now, punishment and correction
are inflicted by all the world on those whom
they believe to be guilty, and by none more
than by your own citizens, the Athenians ; so
that, by this reasoning, the Athenians also are
in the number of those who consider that virtue
may be acquired and taught. That your

202 PROTAGORAS

countrymen then have good reason for listening
to the advice of a smith or a shoemaker on poli
tical affairs, and that in their opinion virtue is a
thing susceptible of being taught and acquired,
has been proved to you, Socrates, with arguments
which, for my part, I consider convincing.

There still remains, however, a difficulty
which puzzles you. You ask how it is that
good fathers instruct their children in all know
ledge that depends upon teachers, and make
them wise therein, but in the virtue wherein
they are good themselves they make them no
better than others. In answering this ques
tion, Socrates, I shall address you no more in
fable, but in serious argument. And let us
view the matter thus. Is there not some one
thing of which all members of a state must
partake, if a state it is to be ? for here, if any
where, shall we find the solution of your diffi
culty. For if such a thing there be, and if
this single thing be neither the art of the car
penter, nor of the brazier, nor of the potter,
but justice and discretion and holiness, and, in
325 a word, that which I call compendiously a
man s virtue ; if this be a thing of which all
must partake, and with which every lesson
must be learnt, and every deed done, without
which no lesson learnt and no deed done ; if
all who do not partake of it must be instructed
and corrected, be they men, or women, or
children, until by such treatment they are im
proved ; while those who refuse to hearken to
the voice of correction and instruction are to be

PROTAGORAS 203

expelled from their country, or put to death as
incurable : if all this be true, and in spite of
this being true, virtuous men have their child
ren instructed in all other knowledge, but fail
to have them instructed in this, just think what
extraordinary people you make of your virtuous
men. For we have proved that as individuals
and statesmen they believe virtue to be the fruit
of education and culture ; and, with this belief
on their part, is it possible to suppose that they
instruct their sons in knowledge where death
is not the punishment of ignorance, but that
in the knowledge of that, wherein if they fail to
instruct their children, they entail upon them
the penalty of death, and of exile, and beside
death the confiscation of their goods ; and, in
a word, the utter ruin of their house ; is it
possible, I say, to suppose that in the know
ledge of this, that is, in the knowledge of
virtue, they do not instruct their children and
bestow thereon all their care ? Surely we
must believe they do. Yes, Socrates, from
infancy upwards they instruct and admonish
them as long as they live. The moment that
a child understands what is said to him, the
one point contended for by nurse, and mother,
and governor, and the father himself, is the
progress of their charge in virtue ; from every
thing that is said and done they take occasion
to tell and explain to him, that such a thing is
just, and such another unjust, that this conduct
is honourable, and that disgraceful, that one
deed is holy, and another impious ; this you

204 PROTAGORAS

must do, they say, and that you must not do.
If the child yield a willing obedience, all is
well; if not, they treat him like a young tree
that is twisted and bent, and try to straighten
him with threats and blows. After this, they
send him to school, with a strict charge to the
master to pay far greater heed to the good be
haviour of the children than to their progress
in reading and music. And the master does
make this his principal care, and as soon as
his boys have learned their letters, and are in
a condition to understand what is written, as
before what was spoken, he sets before them on
their benches the works of good poets to read,
and compels them to learn them by heart,
choosing such poems as contain moral admo-
326 nitions, and many a narrative interwoven with
praise and panegyric on the worthies of old, in
order that the boy may admire, and emulate,
and strive to become such himself. And
exactly on a similar principle the study of the
music -master is to produce sobriety of char
acter, and deter the young from the commission
of evil ; and further, when he has taught them
to play, //<? again instructs them in the works of
other good poets, selecting lyric poems for
their use, which he sets to his music, and com
pels the minds of his pupils to be familiarised
with measure and harmony, to the end that
their natures may be softened, and that, by
becoming more sensible to time and tune, they
may be better qualified to speak and to act.
For the life of man in all its stages requires

PROTAGORAS 205

modulation and harmonising. Nay more, they
send them to gymnastic schools, in order that
by an increase of bodily strength they may be
better able to serve their virtuous minds, and
not be compelled by physical infirmity to shrink
from their post in war and other emergencies.
Such is the course of education adopted by
those fathers who are best able to follow it,
that is to say, by the wealthiest citizens ; and
their sons are the first to go to school, and the
last to leave it. And as soon as they are
released from school, the state on its part con
strains them to learn its laws, and live by them
as by a model, that they may not follow the
random bent of their own inclinations. And
exactly as writing-masters under-rule lines with
their pen for such pupils as are still awkward
at writing, before they give them their writing
lesson, and oblige them to follow in their writing
the direction of the lines ; so too does the state
mark out a line of laws, the discoveries of good
and ancient lawgivers, which it forces its mem
bers to be guided by, as well in exercising as in
obeying authority, while it visits with punish
ment all who transgress the line ; and the
name given to this punishment, both here and
in other places, is correction, under the notion
that justice directs. So great then being the
attention paid to virtue both by states and
individuals, do you wonder, Socrates, and
doubt if virtue is capable of being taught ?
You ought not to wonder at that, but much
rather, if it were not capable.

206 PROTAGORAS

How does it happen then, that virtuous
fathers have frequently unworthy sons ? Hear
the reason ; for neither in this is there any
thing to wonder at, if it be true, as I previously
remarked, that virtue is a pursuit wherein no
327 member of a state, if it is to be a state, must
be altogether uninitiated. For if what I say
be true, as most incontestably it is, consider
the case by selecting in the way of example
some other pursuit and subject of instruction.
Suppose, for instance, that it were impossible
for a state to exist without all its members
being flute-players in a greater or less degree,
according to their several capacities ; suppose
that all both publicly and privately were taught
to play, and reproached if they played ill, and
that no one envied another this attainment,
just as under existing circumstances no one
either envies a man his justice and his obedi
ence to law, or affects to conceal his own, as
he does his other accomplishments for each
of us, I imagine, finds his own interest in his
neighbour s justice and virtue, and therefore all
are eager to tell and teach to all the dictates
of justice and law. Suppose, I repeat, that in
the art of playing the flute we were all ready
to instruct one another with the same zeal and
freedom from jealousy ; do you imagine, So
crates, that the sons of superior flute-players
would be at all more likely to turn out superior
performers than the sons of inferior players ?
I think they would not ; but any man s son
who chanced to be born with a genius for

PROTAGORAS 207

flute-playing would rise to distinction, and if
the genius were wanting, so would be the dis
tinction ; and often would it happen that a
skilful player would be followed by an unskilful
son, and an unskilful father by a skilful son.
But still I feel sure that all would be competent
players by the side of those, who did not make \
flute -play ing their business or their study.
This then is the light in which I wish you
to view our present condition. Select the in
dividual whom you consider the most deficient
in justice of all who have been trained in law
and society, and you will find him not only
just, but a perfect master in justice, when com
pared with men who have neither training, nor
tribunal, nor laws, nor any necessity ever com
pelling them to cultivate virtue ; but who are in
fact savages, like the wild men represented on
the stage last year by the poet Pherecrates at
the Lensean festival. I am confident that, if
you were thrown among such men as those,
like the misanthropical chorus in the play, you
would be only too happy to fall in with a Eury-
bates or a Phrynondas, and would mourn with
tears of regret for the villainy of your worst
citizens here. But now you are fastidious,
Socrates, and because all men are teachers of
virtue to the best of their several abilities, you
believe that it is taught by none. Again, if /
you were to search in Athens for a teacher of
Greek, you would not find a single one ; and
equally unsuccessful, I imagine, would you be 328
if you were to look for a master competent to

208 PR O TA GORAS

instruct the sons of our mechanics in the very
trade which they have eachlearnt from their father,
as well as their father and his fellow-craftsmen
were able to teach it. No, Socrates, if you
wanted a teacher for such proficients as these,
it would be no easy matter to discover one ;
but if for boys quite ignorant of the trade,
you would find one with no trouble at all.
And similar is the difficulty with respect to
virtue and all those other qualities. But if
there be any among us ever so little more
capable than others of advancing men on the
road to virtue, you may be well content. Now
of this number I conceive that I am one ; and
I flatter myself that far above all other men
do I understand the art of making a virtuous
gentleman, and that my lessons are well worth
the price I demand, ay and a still larger one,
so much so that even the pupil himself allows
it. And therefore the plan I have adopted in
asking my terms is this. As soon as a pupil
has finished his course, he pays me, if willing, the
full amount of my demand ; if not, he goes to
an altar, and there he makes on oath his own
estimate of the value of my instructions, and
pays me accordingly.

Such are my proofs, Socrates, both in fable
and serious argument, in favour of the proposi
tions, that virtue is capable of being taught,
and that it is such in the opinion of the Athen
ians, and that there is nothing surprising in
good fathers having bad sons, or in bad fathers
having good sons ; since to take from the

PKOTAGORAS 209

various professions one case out of nnnv th P
f^ndV 01 ^" 5 he companion? ou
.here, Paralus and Xanthippus, are
nothing m comparison with their father Bm

f Paralus and Xanthippus it is not as yet fair
Plicate ,h,s ; for their youth allows us to

After this lengthened and varied display
Pro agoras ceased to speak. And for a long

"

on m in.h > Wt my * sti " fi *d

Him, in the expectation of his saying some

" 11 m my EagerneSS < ^ "

A. hst^he y EagerneSS <

finishf i f J Perceived that he had really
finished I w ,th some difficulty recovered my
think?", , tUmine Hi PPcrates said, How
mkfu I am to you, son of Apollodorus for
having induced me to come hither-so h ^h a

f h V S , 6 , \ aCC Um " have heard what
have hearf from Protagoras. For heretofo e
I as of opm.on that there was no method of
human culture by which the virtuous acquired
.he, r Vlrtue but now , am sua ^quired

Only one sllght di ffi cultv remains .

rHH?S

e you an answer, or to ask any question

P

210 PROTAGORAS

themselves ; but if you start ever so slight an
inquiry with respect to any remark they have
made, exactly in the way that a vessel of brass,
when struck, rings loud, and continues to ring,
unless you stop it by laying on your finger, so
do these orators respond to the shortest ques
tion with an harangue of inordinate length.
But not so our Protagoras. He is not only
equal, as the fact proves, to the delivery of
long and beautiful speeches, but he is also able
to return a short answer to a short question ;
and, when questioner in his turn, he can wait
till he has received his answer gifts these of
rare attainment. Now therefore, Protagoras,
as I only want one slight explanation to be en
tirely satisfied, I trust to you for answering me
this : You assert that virtue is susceptible of
being taught, and if there be a man in the
world on whose word I would believe it, I be
lieve it on yours. But there was one thing
that puzzled me, as you were speaking, and on
this pray satisfy my mind. You said that
Zeus sent justice and shame as a present to
men ; and again, in several places in your
discourse, you spoke of justice, and discretion,
and holiness, and similar qualities, as making
all together one thing, which you called virtue.
This, then, is the point that I wish to be accur
ately explained. Is virtue one thing, and are
justice, discretion, holiness, parts of it, or are
all these but so many names of one and the
same thing ? This is what I still want to
know.

PROTAGORAS 211

Well, Socrates, he said, if this be all, I shall
have no difficulty in answering you. These
qualities of which you ask are all parts of one
thing, of virtue.

But are they parts, I asked, like the parts
of a face, like the mouth, nose, ears, and eyes ;
or, like the parts of gold, do they exactly re
semble one another and the whole, except in
being greater or smaller ?

Like the former, I consider, Socrates. They
bear the same relation to virtue that the parts
of a face bear to the entire face.

How then, said I, are these parts of virtue
distributed among men ? Do some men have
one, and some another ; or, if a man has re
ceived one, must he of necessity have all ?

Certainly not, Socrates. Many men are
courageous without being just, many are just
without being wise.

Then these too are parts of virtue, said I, 33O
wisdom and courage.

Most assuredly they are, said he. Why,
wisdom is chief of all the parts.

And every one of these parts is different
from every other. Is it not so ? I asked.

It is, he replied.

And every one of them has a distinct func
tion, like the parts of a face ? An eye, you
know, is not like an ear, nor is its function the
same ; and so of the other parts, there is not
one like any other, either in function or in any
thing else. Is it the same then with the parts
of virtue ? do they all differ from one another,

212 PROTAGORAS

at once in themselves and their functions ? Is
it not clear though, that such must be the case,
at least, if we are to keep to our comparison ?

Well, Socrates, it is the case.

If so, I continued, there are none of the
other parts of virtue like wisdom, or like jus
tice, or like courage, or like discretion, or like
holiness.

None, he said.

Come then, said I, let us examine together
into the character of each of these parts. And,
first, of justice. Is justice a thing, or not a
thing ? For my part, I believe it to be a
thing. But what do you ?

I believe so, too.

To proceed. If a man were to say to you
and me, Protagoras and Socrates, be good
enough to tell me whether this thing, as you
have just called it, this justice, is, in itself, just
or unjust ? I should answer, Just ; but what
would be your decision ? The same as mine,
or different ?

The same, he replied.

The nature then of justice is to be just, I
should say, if he were to ask me the question.
Should you ?

I should.

And if he were to proceed to inquire whether
we believed in the existence of holiness as well,
we should doubtless assent.

True, he answered.

And if he were to ask whether we called
this a thing also, we should assent again.

PROTAGORAS

213

So we should.

But if he were further to inquire whether we
considered the nature of this thing to be holy,
or unholy, I, for my part, should be indignant
at the question, and should reply, Hush, my
good sir ; it were hard for anything else to be
holy, if holiness itself were not holy. And
you, should not you answer thus ?
Most certainly I should.
If however to these questions he were to add
the following, But what was it, my good friends,
that you said a little time ago? Did I not
hear you aright ? I fancied you said that the
parts of virtue were so disposed among them
selves, as to bear no resemblance one to another.
To this I should reply, For the rest you heard
aright ; but when you thought that I too made
this remark, your hearing deceived you. No, 331
this was Protagoras s answer to a question of
mine. On hearing this, if he were to turn to
you, and say, Protagoras, does Socrates speak
the truth ? do you maintain that the different
parts of virtue are all unlike each other ? was
this assertion yours ? what would be your
reply ?

I should be forced to allow that it was
said he.

After this admission, Protagoras, what would
be our answer, if he were to proceed thus ? It
appears then, that it is not the nature of holi
ness to be a just thing, nor of justice to be
a holy thing ; but, rather, of holiness to be a
thing that is not just, and of justice to be a

2i 4 PROTAGORAS

thing that is not holy ; that is to say, holiness
is an unjust thing, and justice an unholy thing.
Well, what is to be our answer ? On my own
account I should reply, that, as for myself, I
believed justice to be holy, and holiness just ;
and on yours, too, I should be glad, if you
would allow me, to make the same answer ; at
any rate, to say that justice and holiness, if not
exactly the same, resembled each other as
nearly as possible ; and that nothing was so
like holiness as justice, or like justice as holi
ness. Determine then, whether you would
forbid me to make this reply, or whether your
opinion coincides with mine.

I certainly do not think, Socrates, that it is
so unconditionally true, as to demand my un
qualified assent, that justice is holy, and holiness
just. There appears to me to be a difference
between them. But what matters that ? If
you wish it, I am quite ready to allow that
holiness is just, and justice holy.

Pardon me, said I. It is not at all my
object to examine into an * If you wish it, or an
If you think so ; but into what you think, and
what I think : that is to say, I consider that
our argument will be most successfully investi
gated by putting ifs altogether out of the
question.

Well, Socrates, said he, there is no doubt
that justice and holiness are somewhat alike ;
for there are no two things in the world that do
not, in some point of view, resemble one another.
There are points of resemblance between black

PK O TA CORAS 2 1 5

and white, hard and soft, and other qualities
which are believed to be most diametrically
opposed to each other. In fact, those very
parts which we said just now had different
functions and different natures the parts, that
is, of the face do, in certain respects, resemble
one another. So that, in this way, you might
go on to prove, if you chose, that all things are
alike. But it is not fair to call things like,
because they have some point of resemblance ;
nor unlike, because they have some point of
dissimilarity, if, in either case, the point be a
very small one.

To this I replied with wonder, Do you mean
to say then, that, in your opinion, the relation
between justice and holiness is that of the
faintest resemblance ?

I don t quite say this, he replied ; but neither,
on the other hand, am I inclined to take your 332
view of the matter.

Well, said I, since this question seems to put
you out of humour, let us allow it to pass ; and
from the other things you said select the follow
ing for consideration.

Is there a thing you call folly ?
There is.

And is not the direct contrary of this thing
wisdom ?

I think so.

When men act correctly and beneficially, are
they discreet, think you, in so acting ; or would
they be, if they were to act in the opposite
manner ?

216 PROTAGORAS

Discreet in so acting.

Are they not discreet by virtue of discretion ?

Of course they are.

And do not those, who do not act correctly,
act foolishly, and show themselves not discreet
in so acting ?

He assented.

It appears then that acting foolishly is the
contrary to acting discreetly.

It does, he said.

Is it not true, I asked, that what is done
foolishly is done through folly, and what is done
discreetly, through discretion ?

To this he agreed.

And that if a thing be done through strength,
it is done strongly ; if through weakness,
weakly ?

Yes, he answered.

And if with quickness, quickly ; and if with
slowness, slowly ?

True.

And, in short, that if anything is done in
such and such wise, it is done by virtue of the
corresponding quality ; and if contrariwise, by
the contrary quality ?

Granted.

To proceed, said I, Is there such a thing as
beauty ?

There is.

And has it any contrary except deformity ?

None.

Again, is there such a thing as good ?

Yes.

PROTAGORAS 217

Has it any contrary except evil ?
No.

Once more, is there such a thing as high in
sound ?

There is, he said.

And is there any contrary to it except low ?

Not any.

Has every single thing then only one con
trary, and not many ?

Only one, I admit.

Come then, said I, let us reckon up our
admissions. We have admitted that each
thing has one contrary, and no more, have we
not?

We have.

And that whatever is done contrariwise, is
done by virtue of contraries ?

Yes.

And that whatever is done foolishly, is done
contrariwise to that which is done discreetly ?

Granted.

And that what is done discreetly, is done
through discretion ; what foolishly, through
folly?

Agreed.

Well, if they be done contrariwise, they must
be done through contraries, must they not ?

They must.

And the one is done through discretion, the
other through folly, is it not ?

Just so.

Contrariwise ?

Of course.

218 PROTAGORAS

Through contraries then ?

Yes.

It follows then that folly is contrary to dis
cretion ?

Clearly.

Do you remember though our agreeing
before that folly was contrary to wisdom ?

I do.

And that one thing had only one contrary ?

Yes.

Well then, said I, which of our two assertions
333 are we to retract, Protagoras ? the one which
maintains that one thing has only one contrary,
or that, in which it was stated that wisdom and
discretion were distinct, both being parts of
virtue, and not only distinct but unlike, both in
nature and function, just as the parts of the
face are unlike ? Which of the two, I repeat,
are we to retract ? for when set side by side
these two statements do not present a very
musical appearance, as they neither accord nor
harmonise with one another. For how can
they possibly accord, if on the one hand it is
necessary that one thing have only one contrary
and no more, and on the other it appears that
folly, which is one thing, has wisdom for a con
trary and likewise discretion ? I state the case
correctly, do I not, Protagoras ?

He confessed that I did, though sorely against
his will.

Might it not be then, said I, that wisdom
and discretion are one and the same thing ?
Just as before we found that justice and holi-

PROTAGORAS

219

ness were pretty nearly the same. But come
now, Protagoras, I added, let us not be faint
hearted, but examine the rest. If a man com
mits injustice, does he appear to you to be
discreet in committing it ?

I, for my part, Socrates, should be ashamed
to avow this ; there are many though who do.

Shall I maintain then my argument with
them or with you ? I asked.

If you like, said he, address yourself to this
statement first, the statement of the many.

Well, it makes no difference to me, I said,
if you will only answer whether this be your own
opinion or not. For it is the statement itself
that I am bent on sifting, though it may
possibly happen that we are at the same time
sifted ourselves I in asking, and you in
answering.

With this proposal Protagoras at first co
quetted. The subject is so awkward, he
pleaded. At last, however, he agreed to answer.

Come then, said I, answer me from the be
ginning. Do people appear to you to be dis
creet when committing injustice ?

Be it so, he replied.

By their being discreet, do you mean that
they are well advised ?

I do.

And by their being well advised, that they
take good counsel in committing injustice ?

Granted.

Is this the case if they fare well in commit
ting it, or if they fare ill ?

220 PROTAGORAS

If they fare well.

Do you say then that there are certain good
things ?

I do.

Are those things good which are advan
tageous to mankind ?

Yes, and there are things, I can tell you,
that I call good, though they be not advan
tageous to mankind. And by this time Prota
goras seemed to be fairly exasperated and
sorely fretted, and to be stedfastly set against
answering any more. So, seeing him in this
state, I was cautious, and asked him softly,
334 Will you tell me, Protagoras, whether you
speak of things which are advantageous to no
man, or of things which in no respect whatever
are advantageous ? Is it the latter sort that
you call good ?

By no means, he answered. I know of
many things which are disadvantageous to
men, meats, and drinks, and drugs, and a
thousand other things, and of things too which
are advantageous. There are things also
which to men are neither the one nor the
other, though they are to horses, or to oxen,
or to dogs ; while there are other things
again which are neither good nor bad for any
animal, but only for trees. And here again
there is a distinction ; some things are good
for the roots, but bad for the branches. Dung,
for instance, is a capital thing for the roots of
all plants when laid at the roots, but if you
choose to lay it on the branches and young

PROTAGORAS 221

shoots, you destroy the tree. Then again
there is oil, which is very bad for all plants,
and most destructive to the hair of every
animal but man, while to man it is of service
not only for his hair, but also for the rest of his
body. Nay, so varied and multifarious a thing
is good, that even this very thing of which we
are speaking is good for external application,
but the worst thing in the world to be taken
internally. And for this reason medical men
make a point of forbidding their patients the
use of oil, save only of the smallest possible
quantity in what they are going to eat, of just
enough, in fact, to drown the disagreeableness
in their viands and seasonings which impresses
itself on their organs of smell.

This harangue was received by the party
present with clamorous approval. For myself,
I said, Protagoras, it is my misfortune to be a
forgetful sort of person, and if a man makes me
a long speech, I forget what it is all about.
Just then as, if I had chanced to be short of
hearing, you would have considered it neces
sary, if intending to converse with me, to speak
louder than you do to other people ; so now,
since I happen to be short of memory, you
must curtail me your answers, and make them
briefer, if you mean me to keep up with you.

In what sense do you bid me make them
briefer? he asked. Are they to be briefer than
is proper ?

Oh dear no, I replied.

Are they to be the proper length ?

222 PROTAGORAS

Precisely, I said.

Pray then must I answer you at the length
which I consider proper, or which you consider
proper ?

Protagoras, I answered, I have certainly
heard that you both possess yourself the gift,
and can teach it to others, of speaking, if you
choose, on any given subject at such a length,
that your speech never comes to an end, and
then again on the same subject so concisely
that no one expresses himself in fewer words.
If therefore you intend to converse with me, I
335 must request you to adopt your latter style,
your brevity.

Socrates, he answered, I in my time have
entered the lists of argument with many men,
and had I been in the habit of doing as you
recommend, of talking, that is, as my anta
gonist bade me talk, I should be still a mere
nobody, and the name of Protagoras would
never have been heard in Greece.

Then I, knowing that he had not pleased
himself with his former answers, and that he
would not consent if he could help it to go on
answering, and feeling in consequence that it
was no longer my business to be present at the
meeting, addressed him thus : I can assure
you, Protagoras, that I for my part am not
desirous of carrying on our conversation in a
way that you dislike, but as soon as you like
to talk in such a manner that I can keep pace
with you, I shall then be happy to converse.
For you, as fame says, and you say yourself,

PROTAGORAS 223

are capable of conducting a discourse in a style
both of brevity and prolixity for you are a
clever man ; but I have not the gift for these
long speeches, albeit I should have liked well
to possess it. It was your place therefore, as
master of both styles, to have given me the
choice, that so we might have managed a con
versation. But now since you refuse to do so,
and I have an engagement, and could not
wait while you launched out into long ora
tions being required elsewhere I will take
myself off; otherwise I might possibly have
heard even long speeches from you not un
pleasantly.

With these words I rose to depart. And as
I was rising, Callias seized my hand with his
right, and with his left laid hold of my cloak,
saying, We won t let you go, Socrates ; for if
you leave us, we shall find our conversation no
longer the same thing. I beg, therefore, that
you will remain with us ; for I know nothing
that I would more gladly hear than a discussion
between you and Protagoras. So pray oblige
us all. To this I replied, having already risen
to leave the house, Son of Hipponicus, charmed
as I always am with your philosophic spirit, I
now love and admire it more than ever. So
that it would give me great pleasure to comply
with your request, if it were but feasible. But
now it s just as if you were to ask me to keep
up with a runner in his prime, like Crison of
Himera ; or to compete in speed with one of
our long-distance runners or couriers. Were

224 PROTAGORAS

336 you to ask me to do this, I should reply, You
cannot be so anxious for me, as I am for
myself, to keep up with such runners as these ;
but as I cannot, I do not try. No, if you want
to see me and Crison running together, you
must ask him to come down to my level ; for
he can manage a slow pace, though I cannot a
fast. And so in the present matter, if you are
desirous of hearing Protagoras and me, you
must request him to answer, as he did at first,
briefly, and to the question. Otherwise, what
is to be the plan of our conversation ? for my
part, I always thought there was a distinction
between conversing and haranguing.

But you see, Socrates, said he, Protagoras s
proposal is only just ; he demands for himself
permission to converse as he pleases, and leaves
the same liberty to you.

That s not fair, Callias, broke in Alcibiades.
My friend Socrates here confesses that he has
no notion of making long speeches, and yields
the palm therein to Protagoras ; but, in the
power of conversing, and knowing how to give
and answer a question, I should be surprised if
he finds his master anywhere. If therefore,
Protagoras, on his side, admits that he is a
worse hand than Socrates at conversing,
Socrates is content ; but if he professes to
be his match, let him maintain the conversa
tion with question and answer, and not launch
out into a long harangue, whenever a question
is proposed, for the purpose of eluding his
opponent s arguments ; and, instead of render-

1 KOTAGOKAS 225

!u?h a aTe P n le rr r> Pr tracti "S his speech to
a length, that most of the hearers forget
uhat the question was about; though as for
Socrates himself, I ll be bound that he Jll no!
forget, for all his joking and pretending to have

of u E s ou" em ry> l theref ie (as e ^y one
that Socrates s proposal is ^"Srer T Ae

errh, W3S Critias if -

.ht,vho spok e. Prodicu, and Hippias,
e said, Calhas appears to me to be very much

u u I , f Pr tag0raS ; and Alcibiades, a

take 5 ? f 6men u Partisan whatever de he

t is our business, however, to side

ne.ther ,v,th Socrates nor

are

a ial tv h f r l gard both sides * im-
partial.ty, but not with equality. For I con

"" ""

. con

f f renCe T both - shou,""
ean " S ; but not reward both
two wh eq meed: bUt the clevercr f the

Us T" r a ; r> and the CSS dever " HI.
therefore, m my turn, Protagoras

cessi r:Ue y eqUest f > ou b h o make con-
debate if ^ m .," siderin g the question, to
debate, if you will, but not to wrangle for

ship bu, T WUh friendS> JU5t Ut f
h P, but those onl) . w ,. ang , e

226 PROTAGORAS

variance and feud with one another. And
thus your conversation will be best for us
all. For, on the one hand, you, the speakers,
will by this means be most likely to obtain
from us, the hearers, approbation, and not
praise for approbation is felt in the mind of
the listener, and there is no deception in it ;
but praises are often bestowed by those who
falsify with their lips the belief of their hearts :
and we, on the other hand, the hearers,
shall thus be most likely to feel delight, not
pleasure for a man feels delight in learning,
and in partaking of wisdom in his mind ; but
pleasure in eating, and experiencing any other
agreeable sensation merely in the body.

Thus spake Prodicus, and was very generally
applauded ; and after Prodicus, Hippias the
learned took up the word. My friends who
are here present, he began, I regard you all as
of one kin and family and country by nature,
though not by law : for like is akin to like by
nature ; but law, which lords it over men, does
frequently violence to nature. It were a shame
then in us to know the nature of things, to be
the wisest men of Greece, and in this very
character to have now met together in that
city of Greece which is the home and altar of
Grecian wisdom, and in that city s greatest
and wealthiest house, and yet to exhibit no re
sult worthy of this our rank, but, like the low
est of mankind, to quarrel with one another.
It is at once therefore my entreaty and my ad
vice to you, Protagoras and Socrates, that you

1 KOTACORAS 22J

will allow us as arbiters to mediate between
i and do not you, Socrates, insist upon
this your stnct method of talking, which admits
only of the extremes! brevity, if such a method
s disagreeable to Protagoras, but allow your
self more hberty, and give the rein to your
words , order that they may appear before
us W , h greater majesty and grace; and for
you, Protagoras, do not stretch every rope
spread every sail, and, losing sight of land, run
efore the wind into your ocean of words but
see both of you whether you cannot cut ou
some middle course between you. Such then
the plan you should adopt, and, if you take
my advice, you will elect an umpire, and a
chairman and a president, who will take care
hat neither of you transgress on either side
the bounds of moderation.

This proposal pleased the party, and, all

PProving it, Callias repeated that he would

not let me go, and I was requested to name a

president To which I replied, that it tould

be unworthy of us to select an umpire for our

c c ho versat r H " urged the b ^ f -

.ho ce is found to be our inferior, it cannot be
I for such a person to preside over his betters
nor can ,t be well if he turn out to be an equa,
for being Imnself no better than we are, his acts
" be no better either; so that our elec ion
will prove to have been superfluous. lu.t
will appoint you say, ., superior to the post
To tell y ou the truth, I do not believe that it is in
your power to elect a wiser man than Protlgo a "

228 PROTAGORAS

but if you appoint one who is not superior,
though you maintain he is, Protagoras is still
exposed to the indignity of having a president
.set over him like a common man. For myself,
I say nothing it makes no difference to me.
But I will tell you what I will do to gratify
your desire for the continuance of our meeting
and conversation. If Protagoras does not like
answering, let him take the questioning part,
and I will answer, and in doing so will en
deavour to show the sort of answers that, in
my opinion, ought to be given. And as soon
as I have answered all the questions he may
choose to propose, let him in turn answer mine
in a similar manner. And should he still
evince an unwillingness to keep to the question
in his answers, I will then join with you all in
entreating him, as you are now entreating me,
not to destroy our party. And so there will
be no need for a single president to be
appointed ; you will all discharge the office
jointly. This plan of mine being universally
sanctioned, Protagoras was compelled, though
with a very bad grace, to agree to begin by ask
ing questions ; and when he had asked enough,
to give brief answers in his turn to any question
of mine. Hecommenced then pretty nearly thus:
In my opinion, Socrates, one of the most
important elements in a gentleman s education
is a critical knowledge of poetry, and by this I
understand the capacity of distinguishing be-
339 tween such passages in the poets as are cor
rectly and incorrectly composed, and the power

PROTAGORAS 229

of discussing them scientifically, and giving
reasons when questioned about them. Ac
cordingly, the question which I now have to
propose, though it will relate to the subject
which you and I are at present discussing
that is to say, to virtue, shall be transferred to
the region of poetry. This shall be the only
difference. If I remember right, Simonides
says to Scopas, son of Creon the Thessalian,
No doubt to become a good man truly is hard,
a man in hand and foot and heart four square
wrought to a faultless work. Do you know the
ode, or shall I give it you entire ?

Not the slightest occasion, thank you, I re
plied. I not only know the piece, but have
studied it with considerable attention.

I am glad to hear it, he returned. Pray
then do you consider it a beautiful and correct
composition ?

Certainly I do, very beautiful and correct.
And do you think it beautiful if the poet
contradicts himself ?
Certainly not, said I.
Look at it closer then, said he.
You are very good, I answered ; but I have
looked at it close enough.

Are you aware then, he continued, that in
the course of the poem he proceeds, if I mis
take not, to say, 111 do I accord with that word
of Pittacus, though it fell from the lips of a
sage, Tis hard to be good. You observe,
that it is the same person who makes both this
remark and the former one

230 PROTAGORAS

I do, I answered.

And do you think them consistent with each
other ?

I must confess I do, I replied. At the same
time, though, I was sorely frightened, lest there
should be something in what he said. How
ever I continued, But perhaps you don t.

Why how, said he, can I possibly think a
writer consistent with himself who makes both
these assertions ? who in the first place pre
mises in his own person, that it is hard truly to
become a good man, and yet, before he has
advanced any distance in his poem, is so
oblivious as to find fault with Pittacus for say
ing, as he had said himself, that it is hard to
be good, and declares that he cannot admit
such an assertion, though it is exactly the same
as his own. Surely it is evident that in finding
fault with a man, who says only what he has
said himself, he finds fault with himself as well ;
so that in the first passage or the second he is
clearly wrong.

These remarks drew from many of the
hearers clapping and applause. For myself,
at first, just as if a blow had been dealt me by
a skilful boxer, I was blinded and made giddy
at once by the speech of my antagonist, and
the plaudits of his supporters. At last, with a
view (to confess to you the truth) of gaining
time to consider the sense of the poet, I turned
to Prodicus, and calling out to him, said ;
340 Prodicus, sure Simonides is a countryman of
yours. You are bound to come to his aid.

PROTAGORAS

231

And in thus inviting your assistance, I can
fancy myself using the words of Scamander to
Simois, when beset by Achilles ; for according
to Homer he summons him thus :

Come, brother, hasten ; let us both unite
To quell a mortal s too presumptuous might.

And so I now call upon you to join me in
saving our friend Simonides from being de
molished by Protagoras. And I can assure
you, the defence requires all that exquisite art
of yours, whereby you prove that to wish and
to desire are not the same, and which supplied
you with those numerous and delicate distinc
tions which you just now established. And
now consider whether your opinion agrees with
mine. Mine is, that Simonides does not con
tradict himself in this matter; but, before I
support it, I wish you to publish yours.

Do you conceive that becoming and being
are identical or different ?

Different, to be sure, said Prodicus.

And did not Simonides in the first passage
declare his own opinion, that to become a good
man truly is hard ?

He did, was the reply.

And afterwards he condemns Pittacus, not,
as Protagoras supposes, for making the same
assertion that he had made himself, but for a
different one. For Pittacus does not make,
like Simonides, the difficulty to consist in
becoming good, but in being good. And let
me tell you, Protagoras, on the authority of

232 PROTAGORAS

Prodicus, that being and becoming are not the
same. And if being is not the same with
becoming, Simonides does not contradict him
self. And I should not wonder if Prodicus
and many others of the party were to bring
forward Hesiod to prove, that no doubt to
become good is hard ; for in front of virtue, he
says, the gods have placed sweat but when
you are come to the top, for all its being so
hard, it is easy to possess.

As soon as I had finished, Prodicus compli
mented me, but Protagoras rejoined :

Your amendment, Socrates, involves a greater
error than what you would amend.

If so, I replied, my work has been unfeatly
done, and I am a sorry sort of physician ; in
attempting to cure I augment the disease.

Well it is so, Socrates, he said.

How do you mean ? I asked.

Why, said he, it would argue great folly in
the poet, if he really maintained that virtue was
so common a thing to possess, when in the uni
versal opinion of mankind it -is the hardest
thing of all.

How very luckily it happens, said I, that
Prodicus is present at our conversation. For
you must know, Protagoras, I apprehend that
341 the art of Prodicus was in old time of a god
like sort, and commenced either with Simon-
ides, or at some still more ancient date. But
you, though acquainted with a great many
things, are apparently not acquainted with this ;
whereas I on the contrary am, thanks to the

PROTAGORAS

233

teaching of Prodicus. And so in the present
instance you appear to me not to be aware that
this very word hard was possibly not under
stood by Simonides in the sense in which you
understand it, but that he was like our friend
here, who is constantly taking me to task on
the meaning of the word Seivos (terrible, also
sharp, clever). For whenever, in lauding you
or any other distinguished person, I say of the
object of my panegyric, that he is a terrible
clever man, Prodicus asks me whether I am
not ashamed of myself, for calling good things
terrible ? Whatever is terrible, says he, is
evil ; at any rate, no one ever thinks of talking
of terrible wealth, or terrible peace, or terrible
good health ; but men do talk of terrible sick
ness, and terrible war, and terrible poverty ;
thereby implying, that whatever is terrible is
evil. And so perhaps too the Ceans, with
Simonides at their head, conceive what is hard
to be evil, or give it some other signification
with which you are not acquainted. But what
says Prodicus to the question ? for he is the
person to apply to about Simonides s language.
What did Simonides mean, Prodicus, by the
word hard ?

Evil, said he.

This then, I suppose, is the reason why he
finds fault with Pittacus for saying, Tis hard
to be good, just as if he had heard him say,
that it was evil to be good.

Why what else, Socrates, do you suppose
that Simonides does mean ? This of course

234 PROTAGORAS

and he makes it a reproach to Pittacus that he
did not know how to distinguish rightly the
meaning of words, as being a Lesbian, and
reared in a barbarous dialect.

You hear, Protagoras, what Prodicus says.
Have you any answer to make ?

You are altogether wrong, Prodicus, he
answered. I am confident that Simonides
meant by hard, just as we all do, not what is
evil, but that which, instead of being easy, is
done with a great deal of trouble.

Well, to tell you the truth, Protagoras, I
said, I agree with you. I believe Simonides
did mean this, and what is more, Prodicus
knows he did ; only he is bantering you, and
thinks to try whether you are able to back your
own assertions. Since a very strong proof,
that, at any rate, Simonides did not understand
hard to be evil, is afforded by his very next
remark. For he says, that God alone can
possess this boon ; and I am sure that, if he
had meant to say that it was evil to be good,
he could not have at once added, that none but
God can possess good, and have assigned this
as a special attribute to the deity. Were this
the case, Prodicus would call his countryman
an impious profligate, and no true son of Ceos.
But what appears to me to be in this poem the
intention of Simonides throughout, I am willing
342 to tell you, if you would like, Protagoras, to
have a sample of my capacity for the criticism
of poetry that you talk about. To this pro
posal Protagoras answered, Exactly as you

PROTAGORAS

235

please, Socrates ; but Prodicus, Hippias, and
the rest, pressed me strongly to begin.

Well then, said I, I will endeavour tho
roughly to explain to you the view which I, for
my part, take of the poem.

In no countries of Greece is philosophy of
higher antiquity, or more generally prevalent,
than in Crete and Lacedasmon, and nowhere in
the world are sophists more numerous than
there. But the inhabitants of these countries
deny the fact, and, like those sophists of whom
Protagoras told us, affect an unlearned exterior,
in order that their superiority in Greece may
not be discovered to consist in wisdom, but be
thought to depend upon their valour in war, as
they imagine that, if the secret of their ascend
ency were known, it would at once be uni
versally practised. As it is, however, they
have so skilfully concealed it, that they have
taken in all the would-be Spartans in other
states ; and, accordingly, you may see these
gentlemen getting their ears battered in their
ardent emulation, encircling their arms with
the straps of the cestus, toiling in the palaestra,
and wearing brief cloaks, under the impression,
doubtless, that these are the practices to which
the Spartans owe their supremacy in Greece.
But the Lacedaemonians, wishing to enjoy the
society of their native sophists without re
straint, and getting wearied of having to meet
them in secret, made a clearance by alien-acts
of these foreign imitators, and all other strangers
in their country, and thenceforward lived in in-

236 PROTAGORAS

tercourse with their sophists, without foreigners
being aware of the fact. And, further, they
allow none of their own youth to visit other
cities, for fear of their there unlearning the
lessons they have learnt at home a practice
which is observed by the Cretans as well.
Nay, not only are there men in these countries
who pique themselves on their erudition, but
women also share their zeal. Now, that my
statement is correct, and that the Lacedae
monians are admirably trained in philosophy
and the art of words, may be discovered from
the following fact. If you converse with the
most ordinary Spartan^ you find him for a
long while in the conversation appearing an
ordinary sort of person ; but just wait for an
opportunity to present itself, and he will shoot
at you, like a skilful archer, a notable saying
of terse and pointed brevity, so that you, his
antagonist, will show no better than a child by
his side. And it was observing this very fact
which led certain men, in times both past and
present, to believe that the Spartan idiosyncrasy
consisted rather in a devotion to wisdom than
gymnastics, as they were aware that the ca
pacity for uttering pithy sentences of this sort
implied in its possessor a finished education.
343 Of this number were Thales of Miletus,
Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias the Prienian, Solon
among ourselves, Cleobulus of Lindus, Myson
of Chene, and the Lacedaemonian Chilon, who
was reckoned to make up the seven. All these
sages were admirers and lovers and disciples of

PROTAGOKAS

237

the Spartan system, and easily may you dis
cover their wisdom to have been after the
Spartan model, by the brief and memorable
sayings that were uttered by each. Nay
more, when they met together to dedicate the
choice offering- of their wisdom to Apollo, in his
temple at Delphi, they inscribed thereon, in
their joint capacity, those famous sayings,
which are, you know, on everybody s lips,
Know thyself, and, Nothing in extremes.

What is my object, you will ask, in saying
this ? It is to show, that among the ancients
philosophy was couched in a style of Laconic
pith and brevity. A particular instance of
which is afforded by this Very saying of
Pittacus, < Tis hard to be good ; which, being
received with applause by the learned, was
passed in private circles from mouth to mouth.
Simonides then, being a man ambitious of
philosophic distinction, felt sure that if he were
to succeed in overturning this famous dictum,
he would, like a novice who had defeated a
champion wrestler, establish himself a reputa
tion among the men of his day. It was in
opposition then to this current saying, and
with this ambitious view in thus seeking to
suppress it, that he composed the entire ode,
according to my view of the matter.

Let us now then all unite in examining the
piece, to see whether my view be a correct one.
To begin, the very commencement would
appear to be insane, if the author wished
simply to state the fact that it was hard to be

238 PROTAGORAS

good ; for he inserts the words * no doubt,
which seem to be inserted with no object in
the world, unless we conceive him engaged in
a sort of quarrel with the saying of Pittacus ;
and that, when Pittacus asserts that it is hard
to be good, Simonides contradicts him and
says, It is not so, but to become a good man
is hard, Pittacus, in very truth. Mind, he
does not say, truly good ; it is not to good
that he applies the word truly/ as though he
thought that some things were truly good, and
others good indeed, but not good truly. No,
this would be silly, and not like Simonides.
But we must make a transposition of the word
truly, and presuppose that the two remarks
were made in something like the following
manner. Pittacus enunciates thus, Mortals, it
344 is hard to be good ; and Simonides replies,
You are wrong, Pittacus ; be is not the word,
but no doubt to become a good man, in hand
and word and thought complete, wrought to a
faultless work, is hard in very truth. Thus
you see we find a reason for inserting no
doubt, and the word truly seems to be
correctly placed at the end of the sentence.
And that this is here the sense of the poet, is
attested by all the remainder of the poem. For
were I to review each passage in it separately,
I could abundantly prove it to be a perfect
composition ; for it is all very charming and
elaborate. As, however, it would be too long
a matter to analyse it thus, I will content
myself with making it clear by a general sketch

PROTAGORAS

239

that the scope of the entire poem is nothing
more or less, from beginning to end, than a
refutation of Pittacus s dictum.

For after a brief interval the poet proceeds
to assert, just as he would do if maintaining an
argument, that though no doubt to become a
good man is truly hard, yet for a certain time
at least it is possible ; but when become so, to
remain in this condition, and be, as you say,
Pittacus, a good man, is altogether impossible,
and more than human. God alone may possess
this boon ; But for man, he cannot possibly be
other than evil, whom helpless misfortune
prostrates. Who is it then that helpless mis
fortune prostrates in the command of a ship ?
Clearly not the landsman ; for the landsman is
always prostrate. Just then, as you cannot
throw down a man who is on the ground, but
he must be on his legs before you can so throw
him as to lay him on the ground ; exactly in
the same way a man must be possessed of
help and resource before he can be prostrated
by helpless misfortune, while the man who is
ever without help can never possibly be pro
strated. A violent storm may overtake the
pilot, and make him helpless ; a severe season
may surprise the farmer, and make him help
less ; and so may the physician be made help
less by an analogous professional calamity.
For the good man is capable of becoming evil,
as is attested by another poet, who says,

The good are sometimes evil, sometimes good ;
but the evil man cannot possibly become, but

2 4 o PROTAGORAS

must of necessity ever be, evil. Thus it
appears then, that whenever a helpful, a wise,
and a virtuous man is prostrated by helpless
misfortune, he cannot possibly be other than
evil. But, you say, Pittacus, it is hard to be
good ; no, the truth is, that to become good no
doubt is hard, yet possible ; but to be good is
impossible quite. For, as the poet continues,
Every man is good by faring well, and evil by
faring ill. What then is faring well with
regard to letters ? and what makes a man
345 good in letters ? Clearly the learning of
letters. And what kind of faring well makes
a good physician ? Clearly the learning of
the treatment of the sick. And evil, he says,
by faring ill. 7 Who then is capable of becoming
an evil physician ? Clearly the man who starts
with being in the first instance a physician, and
in the second a good physician. For he can
also become a bad physician. But we who
are unprofessional cannot possibly become, by
faring ill, either physicians, or carpenters, or
anything of the kind ; and whosoever cannot
become a physician by faring ill, obviously
cannot become an evil physician either. Thus
you see it is only the good man that can ever
become evil, whether he become so by decay,
or pain, or disease, or any other casualty for
this alone is evil faring, to lose one s know
ledge but the evil man can never become
evil, for he is alway evil ; if he would fain
become evil, he must first become good. So
that this part of the poem also tends to prove

rRO TA CORAS 24 1

that it is not possible to be a good man in the
sense of continuing good, but to become good
is possible, just as it is to become evil. And
they, adds the poet, are best for the longest
time whom the gods love.

And if it be plain that these passages are
directed against Pittacus, the aim of the poet
in the following is still more clearly marked.
For thus he proceeds : < Wherefore never will
in quest of that which cannot be, throw
away a part of life on empty bootless hope ;
in quest, I say, of an all-blameless man among
us, who feed on the fruits of the wide-bosomed
earth. When I find one, I will let you know.
So vehemently and uniformly throughout the
poem does he persist in attacking that expres
sion of Pittacus. But all I praise and love
willingly who do naught vile with necessity ^ c
not even gods contend. And this again is
directed to the same point. For Simonides
was not so ill-informed as to express his
admiration of those who committed no evil
willingly, as though he imagined there were
any in the world who did commit evil wil
lingly. I had almost said, that no wise man
ever entertained the opinion, that any mortal
errs willingly, or commits base and wicked
actions willingly. On the contrary, wise men
well know that all who do base and evil deeds,
do them involuntarily. And so Simonides,
as a wise man, does not profess himself an
admirer of those who do not commit evil
willingly ; but he predicates the willingness of

242 PROTAGORAS

himself. For he conceived it to be frequently
the duty of a good and noble man to force
himself to become the friend and admirer of
346 others for instance, when a man is unfortu
nate enough to have an unworthy father, or
mother, or country, or any similar tie. Now
wicked men, when subject to any evil of this
kind, observe it with a kind of satisfaction ;
and draw attention to it by their vituperations,
and enlarge on the enormity whether in
their parents or their country in order that,
while they neglect their own duty towards
them, men may not make such neglect a
ground of accusation, or reproach. And thus
their censure far exceeds what is merited ; and,
to unavoidable causes of dislike, they add
causes of their own making. Whereas good
men, on the contrary, dissemble in such cases,
and compel themselves to speak even the lan
guage of praise ; and, if ever at all enraged
with their parents, or country, for wrong in
flicted, they sober and tranquillise their feel
ings, and seek a reconciliation by forcing
themselves into a condition to love and admire
those who are thus connected with them. /{ And
so, I imagine, did Simonides frequently find it
his duty to speak of a tyrant, or some similar,
character, in terms of admiration and panegyric
not willingly, remember, but by compulsion.
This then explains what he says to Pittacus.
If I blame you, Pittacus, it is not because I am
fond of blaming ; since I, for my part, am
content with a man who is not evil or helpless

PROTAGORAS 243

quite ; who does but know the justice that
saves a city, and is of sound mind. Such a
man I will not censure ; for censure I do not
love : besides, infinite is the family of fools
(thereby implying, that if a man were fond of
blaming, he might take his fill by blaming
these). Sure, all is fair wherewith foul is not
mixed. And by this he does not mean the same
as if he had said, Sure, all is white wherewith
black is not mixed ; for this would be absurd, in
more ways than one : but what he does mean
to say is, that he admits of a mean which he
does not condemn. And I search not, he says,
for an all-blameless man among us, who feed
on the fruits of the wide-bosomed earth ; when
I find one, I will let you know. So that if on
this depended praise, I should praise none ;
but I am content with one who holds the mean,
and does no evil ; since all I love and praise
(here, as addressing Pittacus, he uses the
dialect of Mytilene) ; since all I love and
praise willingly (here, at the word willingly,
we must make the pause in reading) who do
nought vile ; there are some, though, whom I
praise and love against my will. Thee there
fore, Pittacus, hadst thou spoken but moderate
sooth and reason, I would never have blamed ; 347
but now, as thy lie is utter, and on the greatest
things, while thou fanciest thyself speaking truth,
I cannot choose but give thee blame.

Such, Prodicus and Protagoras, I conclude
to have been the object which Simonides had
in view in the composition of this poem.

244 PROTAGORAS

And a very fair exposition you have made of
it too, Socrates, in my opinion, said Hippias.
I however, gentlemen, he continued, possess a
critique of my own on this piece a very good
one which I am willing to propound to you,
if you would like to hear it.

Thank you, Hippias, cried Alcibiades ;
another day, if you please. To-day it s only
fair that Protagoras and Socrates should fulfil
their mutual agreement ; which binds Socrates
to reply, if Protagoras has any further question
to propose : but to ask questions himself, if
Protagoras prefers to answer.

Yes, I said, I leave it to Protagoras to
choose whichever is more agreeable to him.
But, Protagoras, I added, if you have no objec
tion, I should like to drop these criticisms on
songs and poems, and should much prefer
coming to a conclusion on the former subject
of our inquiry, by investigating it in company
with you. For, I must confess, I think that
talking about poetry bears a close resemblance
to the festive amusements of the vulgar and
uneducated. For these people, being too
ignorant to converse together over their cups
through the medium of their own voices and
words, keep up the prices of flute-players by
hiring, for large sums, the foreign aid of their
flutes, and entertaining each other through
their voices. But in the banquets of gentle
men and scholars, you will see neither dancing-
girls nor women that play on the flute or the
lyre ; but you will find the guests themselves

PROTAGORAS 245

equal to the task of conversing, without these
puerile toys, by their own voices ; both speak
ing and listening in turn, with decency and
order, even though they have drunk a great
quantity of wine. And so too parties like the
present, if indeed composed of such men as
most of us profess to be, have no need to
borrow the foreign voices even of poets, whom
it is impossible to interrogate as to their mean
ing ; but who are cited as authorities by com
batants in their talk, while both sides assign a
different sense to the citation, and persist in
disputing a point, which they can never satis
factorily settle. No ; wise men care nothing
for such entertainment as this : but entertain
each other with their own stores, by giving and 348
receiving mutually, in their own conversation,
proofs of their capacity. And such is the
example which it appears to me that you and
I ought rather to imitate ; let us throw the
poets on one side, and, conducting the dis
course by our own unaided efforts, bring at
once truth and our own selves to the test.
Should you therefore wish still to interrogate,
I am ready to lend myself to you in reply : but if
you prefer answering, do you lend me your aid in
bringing to a conclusion that inquiry, of which
we abandoned the discussion in the middle.

Notwithstanding these and similar remarks
on my part, Protagoras continued to keep us
in the dark as to the course he should prefer ;
upon which Alcibiades looked at Callias, and
said, Callias, do you still think that Protagoras

246 PROTAGORAS

acts fairly in refusing to let us know whether he
will answer or not ? For my part, I certainly
do not think that he does. No, let him either
continue the conversation, or tell us at once
that he is unwilling to do so, in order that, his
unwillingness being once clearly understood,
we may either get Socrates to converse with
some one else, or find another pair willing to
engage in a discussion. Whereupon, Prota
goras being piqued, as it appeared to me, by
this remark of Alcibiades, and being pressed
by Callias and nearly all the remainder of the
party, was at length induced, though with great
difficulty, to renew the conversation ; which he
did by requesting me to start my inquiries, as
he was now ready to reply.

So I began. Pray do not imagine, Prota
goras, that I have ever any other design in
conversing with you, than a wish to examine
thoroughly into difficulties which I cannot of
myself unravel. I think that Homer was very
right in saying, When two go together, one
observes before the other. For so do all of us
mortals acquire a greater facility for every deed,
and word, and thought. But if haply a man
has thought alone, he straightway goes up and
down, and searches till he find some one else
to whom he may communicate his thought, and
in concert with whom he may verify it. And
this is the reason why I have greater pleasure
in conversing with you than with any other
man in the world, as I am persuaded that none
are so well capable of investigating all subjects

247

which are worth the good man s study, and in
particular the subject of virtue. For to whom
but you should I apply ? when not only do you
profess yourself a virtuous gentleman, just as is
professed by many good people, who cannot
impart their goodness to others ; but when,
beside being virtuous yourself, you are able to
make others virtuous also ; when, further, your
confidence in yourself is so implicit, that,
whereas it is the custom with other masters of
your art to dissemble it with care, you, on the 349
other hand, have yourself publicly cried under
the name of a sophist before all the Greeks,
and advertise yourself a teacher of accomplish
ment and virtue ; being moreover the first to
conceive yourself entitled to receive a price for
your instructions. Is it not then eveiy man s
duty to appeal to you for the investigation of
these matters, to inquire into your opinions,
and communicate his own ? Most assuredly it
is. And so on the present occasion I am
anxious to renew from the beginning those
questions, which I in the first instance proposed
to you on these subjects, hoping that you will
remind me of points which we decided, and
join me in considering others. My inquiry, if
I remember right, was this : Wisdom, discre
tion, courage, holiness, and justice, are these
all but five names for one and the same thing ;
or is there attached to each of these names a
distinct idea, and a distinct thing possessing a
separate function of its own, whereby it is
distinguished from all the rest ? To this you

248 PROTAGORAS

replied, that they were not names of one thing,
but that each of these names was applied to a
distinct thing, and that all these things were
parts of virtue, not like the parts of gold,
which resemble both one another, and the
whole whereof they are parts, but like the parts
of the face, which are dissimilar from the whole
and from one another, each being possessed of
a distinct function. If then you still adhere to
your former opinion, tell me ; but if you have
altered it at all, mark the alteration clearly, as
I hold you in no wise accountable for any
difference of opinion you may choose to ex
press. Nay, I should not be surprised if your
previous answer was merely intended to try me.

Well, Socrates, he said, I tell you that all
these qualities are parts of virtue, and that
four of them bear a reasonably close resem
blance to one another, but that courage is very
different indeed from them all. And the
following fact will prove my assertion. You
will find many men distinguished for injustice,
impiety, intemperance, and stupidity, who are
yet eminently conspicuous for their courage.

Hold there a moment, I cried ; your observa
tion is worth examining. By the courageous,
do you mean the daring ?

Yes, he said, and those who are ready to
plunge into dangers which most men are afraid
to encounter.

Again, do you pronounce virtue to be a
beautiful thing, and as being a beautiful thing
do you come forward to teach it ?

PROTAGORAS

249

Nay, Socrates, as I m a sane man, I pro
nounce it to be of all things most beautiful.

Is, however, one part of it beautiful and
another ugly, or is it all beautiful ?

All beautiful, I consider, and in the highest
degree.

Do you know who they are that dive into
wells daringly ?

Of course I do, said he. Divers. 350

Is it because they know how to dive, or for
some other reason ?

Because they know how to dive.

And who are daring fighters on horseback,
good riders or bad ?

Good riders.

And who are daring as targeteers, those
who understand the service or those who do
not?

Those who do. And so in everything else,
he added, if this is what you are driving at, the
scientific are more daring than the unscientific,
and the same person when he has acquired the
science is more daring than he was before he
acquired it.

Have you ever in your life, said I, met with
persons who were unscientific in all these
matters, and yet engaged in them all with
daring ?

Certainly I have, and with excessive daring.

Are these daring people also courageous ?

If they were, he answered, courage would be
far from being a beautiful thing ; for these are
mere madmen.

250 PROTAGORAS

Pray how do you define the courageous ? I
asked. Did you not say they were the daring ?

I did, and I say so now.

It would appear then, said I, that those who
are daring in this way are not courageous, but
mad ; and from the former instances I adduced,
that the wisest men are also most daring, and
as being most daring are most courageous.
So that by this reasoning, wisdom would be
courage, would it not ?

You do not rightly remember, Socrates, he
answered, what I said in reply to your ques
tion. When asked by you whether the cour
ageous were daring, I agreed they were ; but
whether the daring also were courageous, you
did not ask me then. Had you done so, I
should have replied, Not all. But that the
courageous are not daring, and that I was
wrong in admitting they were, you have no
where proved. Instead of doing so, you take
the trouble of showing, that those who possess
science are more daring than they were them
selves before they possessed it, and more daring
than others who do not possess it, and thereby
you conclude that courage and wisdom are
identical. But, by pursuing this method of
inquiry, you might equally well arrive at the
conclusion, that bodily strength is wisdom.
For if, in following out this course, you were in
the first place, to ask me whether the strong
were powerful, I should say, Yes ; if you were
to proceed to inquire whether scientific wrestlers
were more powerful than unscientific wrestlers,

PROTAGORAS

251

and more powerful than they were themselves
before they had learnt the science of wrestling,
I should again reply, Yes ; and after I had
made these admissions, you would be in a con
dition, by availing yourself of the same logic as
before, to state that by my admission wisdom
was bodily strength. But here again observe,
I nowhere admit that the powerful are strong,
though I do that the strong are powerful. For
I do not consider strength and power to be
the same ; but the one, power, to arise from 351
science, yes, and from madness too, and pas
sion ; but strength from sound nature and good
bodily nourishment. In like manner, I main
tain that courage and daring are not the same.
Courageous men are daring, but it is not all
daring men that are courageous ; for daring,
like power, arises from scientific skill, and from
passion too, and madness, but courage, from
nature and good mental nurture.

Do you allow, Protagoras, said I, that some
men live well, and others ill ?

I do, he replied.

Do you think that a man would live well if
he lived in vexation and pain ?

No.

But if he lived in pleasure to the day of his
death, you would consider him then, would you
not, to have lived well ?

I should.

To live pleasantly then, it appears, is a good
thing ; to live unpleasantly, an evil thing.

Yes, if the pleasures a man lives in be but honest.

252 PROTAGORAS

How, Protagoras, I exclaimed, do you main
tain with the many, that some pleasant things
are evil, and some painful things good ? For
myself, I say, as far as things are pleasant,
are they not so far good, if they are to have no
other results ? And, on the other hand, are
not painful things in the same way evil, in so
far as they are painful ?

I am not sure, Socrates, he replied, whether
I ought to answer as unreservedly as you ask,
that pleasant things are all good, and painful
things all evil. No, I conceive that it would
be safer for me, not only in reference to my
present answer, but also to all the rest of my
life, if I were to reply that there are some plea
sant things which are not good, some painful
things which are not evil, others again which are
such, while there is a third class which are neither
the one nor the other, neither evil nor good.

By pleasant things, I asked, do you not mean
those with which pleasure is connected or which
cause pleasure ?

To be sure I do, he replied.

I ask then, whether they be not good, in so
far as they are pleasant ; meaning by this ques
tion to ask, whether pleasure itself be not a
good thing.

Well, Socrates, he answered, I say to yon,
as you are always saying yourself, let us
examine the matter, and if the question seem
germane to our subject, and it appears that
pleasure and good are the same, we will agree
on the point ; if not, we will then join issue.

PROTAGORAS 253

Would you like, I asked, to take the lead in
the examination yourself, or shall I ?

You are the proper person to lead, he
answered ; for it was you who started the sub
ject.

Perhaps then, said I, by some way like the
following, we shall arrive at a clear view of the 352
question. Just as a person who was forming
an estimate of a man s health or physical
capacity in any particular, from a survey of his
bodily form, would be sure to say to him, if he
saw no more than his face and hands, Come,
my good friend, strip, if you please, and show
me your chest and your back, that I may
inspect you more closely ; so do I now crave
some disclosure of the kind for our present in
vestigation. Having observed, from what you
have told me, the state of your mind with
regard to pleasure and good, I still require to
say, Come, friend Protagoras, uncover your
mind further, and show me its state with regard
to knowledge. On this point, also, do you
think as the many do, or differently ? Their
opinion of knowledge is, that it is not a strong,
nor a commanding, nor a governing thing ; nor
do they form their notions with reference to it,
as though it were such ; but conceive that,
though knowledge is often to be found in a
man, it is not his knowledge that governs him,
but some other thing, at one time passion, at
another pleasure, at another pain, sometimes
love, and often fear ; so that they plainly think
of knowledge as of a poor slave, liable to be

254 PROTAGORAS

dragged about at will by all those other things.
Is this then your opinion also ? or do you
conceive knowledge to be a noble thing, well
fitted to govern mankind ; and that if a man
does but know what is good and evil, he can
never be so swayed by any other thing, as to do
aught else than what his knowledge prescribes,
and, in fine, that wisdom is well able to defend
mankind ?

I quite think as you say, Socrates, he
answered. And besides, if for any man in the
world, it were a shame for me, to deny that
wisdom and knowledge are of all human things
the mightiest.

Well and truly said, I rejoined. Are you
aware though, that most men do not believe
you and me in this matter, but say that many
people, who know what is best, do not choose
to practise it, though it is in their power to
practise it, but practise other things ? And
never have I asked the reason of this conduct,
but I have been told that such people act thus
from being overpowered by pleasure or pain, or
mastered by some one of those things which I
just now mentioned.

I don t doubt it, Socrates, he replied. There
are many other points on which men speak in
correctly.

Come then, said I, and join me in endea
vouring to persuade these men, and teach them
353 what that state is, which they call being over
powered by pleasure, and which prevents people
from doing, although they know, what is best.

PROTAGORAS

255

For I should not wonder if on our saying to
them, You speak incorrectly, my friends, you
are deceived, they were to turn upon us with
the question ; Protagoras and Socrates, if being
overpowered by pleasure is not this, pray what
is it ? what do you declare it to be ? tell us both
of you.

What business is it of ours, Socrates, to
examine into tl^e opinion of the vulgar herd,
who just say what comes first into their head ?

I think, I replied, that we shall find this in
quiry help us somewhat in discovering the
relation which courage bears to the other parts
of virtue. If it is your intention then to abide
by our late agreement which assigned the lead
to me, let me beg you to follow me on the road
which I expect will best conduct us to the
light. But if you are unwilling to do so, I will
drop this question, if such be your pleasure.

No, Socrates, said he ; you are right, finish
as you have begun.

Again then, said I, if they were to ask us,
What do you declare this to be, which we
called being subject to pleasures ? I for my
part should answer, Hearken, my friends, we
will endeavour to tell you, Protagoras and I.
Do you not allow that you experience this sub
jection in the following circumstances ? that
often you are so swayed by eating and drinking
and love, all pleasant things, that, though you
know them to be evil, you still indulge in
them ?

Yes, they would allow it, said Protagoras.

256 PROTAGORAS

You and I then, Protagoras, will ask them
again, In what point of view do you say that
they are evil ? Is it because they afford this
pleasure at the moment, and because each of
them is pleasant for the moment, or because
they lay up for your future life diseases and
poverty, and many other similar evils ? Or, if
they produced none of these after effects, but
merely created pleasure, should you still pro
nounce them evil for making a man pleased
under any circumstances and in any way what
soever ? Can we conceive, Protagoras, that
they would return us any other answer, than
that these things were evil, not for the mere
fact of creating the momentary pleasure, but on
account of the diseases and other results which
follow in their train ?

Such, I imagine, said Protagoras, would be
the answer of the many.

And when they create diseases, clo they
create pain ? and when they create poverty, do
they create pain ? They would assent to this,
I think.

And so do I, said Protagoras.

Are you of opinion then, my friends, as I
and Protagoras hold, that these things are evil
for no other reason than because they terminate
in pain, and deprive us of other pleasures ?
They would assent ?
354 We both agreed that they would.

But suppose we were to reverse our question,
and ask, When you speak, on the other hand,
good people, of painful things being good, do

PROTAGORAS 257

you not mean such things as gymnastic exer
cises, and military service, and the treatment
of diseases by cautery and the knife, by dosing
and starving ? Is it not such things you call
good, but painful ? Yes, they would say.
Granted, said Protagoras.
Do you call these things good then for the
reason, that they afford us at the moment the
utmost pain and annoyance, or because their
after results are the health and good condition
of bodies, the safety, empire, and wealth of
states ? For the latter reason, would be their
answer, I think.

Certainly it would, said he.
Are these things good on any other account
than because they terminate in pleasures, and
in deliverance from, and avoidance of, pains ?
Or can you tell me of some other end which
you have in view when you call them good, than
that of pleasure and pain ? No, they would
answer, in my opinion.
And in mine too, said he.
Do you pursue then pleasure as being a
good thing, and shun pain as being an evil
thing ?

They do, replied Protagoras.
This then, pain, you esteem to be an evil,
and pleasure to be a good ; since you say that
even the enjoyment of pleasure itself is evil,
when it deprives you of greater pleasures than
itself contains, or produces pains which exceed
its own pleasures. For, if you call pleasure
itself an evil for any other reason, or with any
S

258 PROTAGORAS

other end in view than this, you may tell us, if
you can ; but you cannot.

No, I do not think they can, said Pro
tagoras.

And is it not exactly the same, on the other
hand, with suffering pain ? Do you not call
pain itself a good, when it rids you of greater
pains than its own, or produces pleasures
which exceed its pains ? Since, if you have
any other end in view when you call pain itself
a good, you may tell us, if you can ; but you
cannot.

Quite true, Socrates, they cannot.

But if, my friends, you were on your side to
interrogate me and ask, Why ever do you say
so much on this question, and turn it in so
many ways ? Bear with me, I should reply ;
for, in the first place, it is no easy matter to
prove what that is which you call being subject
to pleasures ; and secondly, on this very ques
tion hinges all my proof. But even now, late
as it is, you are at liberty to retract, if you can
355 say that good is anything else than pleasure ;
evil, anything else than pain ; if you can tell
me that you are not content to live out your
life pleasantly in freedom from pain. But if
you are so content, and cannot tell me of any
thing being good or evil, which does not ter
minate in these, hearken to what follows. I
maintain that, if this be the case, your words
become ridiculous, when you say, that often a
man who knows evil to be evil, practises it
nevertheless, when he is not obliged to prac-

PROTAGORAS

259

tise lt , from being led and carried out of him
self by pleasures; and when, on the other
hand, you say, that the man, who knows what is
good, does not choose to practise it, on account
the immediate pleasures by which he is over
mastered.

Now the absurdity of these statements will
e clearly seen, if we abstain from using the
many names of pleasant and painful, and good
and evil ; but agree, since the things have been
ound to be only two, to call them only by two
names; first, by those of good and evil, and
ien by those of pleasant and painful. This
being established, let us say, that a man
knowing evil to be evil, nevertheless does it
f any one ask us, Why? We shall answer,
ecause he is overpowered. By what ? will be
the next question. But we are no longer at
liberty to say, By pleasure ; for it has received
another name, and instead of pleasure, is now
called good. Let us answer him then and say
Because he is overpowered. By what? he
will repeat. By good, we must reply. Now
should our friend be disposed to raillery, he
will laugh at us, and say, Ridiculous conduct
this you speak of, when a man does evil know
ing it to be evil, with no obligation to do it
because he is overpowered by good. Is it by a
good he will ask, which is worthy or not
worthy in your opinion to overcome the evil ?
To this, of course, we shall reply, Not worthy
for otherwise the man whom we say is sub
ject to pleasure would not be in fault. And

260 PROTAGORAS

in what respect, he will probably continue,
are good things unworthy to overcome evil, or
evil to overcome good ? is it in any other than
in that of magnitude or quantity ? We shall
not be able to mention any other than this. It
is evident then, he will conclude, that by this
case of being overpowered, you mean, choosing
greater evil instead of less good. So far then
on this track. Now let us change our names,
and again applying the terms pleasant and
painful to these same things, let us say that
a man does things, which we before called
evil and now call painful, knowing them to be
painful, being overpowered by pleasant things,
which are of course unworthy to obtain the
356 mastery. And what other measure is there of
pleasure in comparison with pain, than that of
excess and defect ? that is to say, of one being
greater or smaller than the other, more or less,
stronger or weaker ? For if it be said, But,
Socrates, there is a great difference between
that which is pleasant at the moment, and that
which is ultimately pleasant or painful ; Does
it lie, I should ask, in anything else than in
pleasure and in pain ? In nothing else, I am
sure. No, like a man expert at weighing, put
together all the pleasures, and put together all
the pains, then set both their nearness and re
moteness in the scales, and tell me which are
the heavier. If you weigh pleasures against
pleasures, the greater and the greater number
are always to be chosen ; if pains against pains,
the smaller and the smaller number ; if plea-

PROTAGORAS 261

sures against pains, then, if the pains be
exceeded by the pleasures, whether near by
remote, or remote by near, the line of con
duct is to be pursued in which this excess is
contained ; but if the pleasures be exceeded by
the pains, then it is not to be pursued. Good
people, I should ask, can these matters be
settled in any other way ? I am sure that they
could tell me of no other.

Protagoras did not think they could either.

Seeing, then, that this is the case, answer
me the following question. Do the same
objects appear to your sight to be greater in
size when near, and smaller in size when re
mote ? or do they not ?

They do, would be their answer.

And is it not the same with the thickness and
number of objects ? And do not equal sounds
appear louder when near, fainter at a distance?

Yes, they would say.

If then our wellbeing had depended upon
this, upon our making and choosing great
lengths, and our avoiding and not making
small ones, what would, to all appearance,
have been the safeguard of our life ? Would
it be the art of mensuration, or the force of
appearances ? Or would this latter have led
us astray, and caused us to be ever choosing
and ever rejecting the same things ; and ever
repenting, in our practice and choice of lengths,
both great and small ? while the art of men
suration would bring to naught this phantom-
show, and, pointing out to us the truth, would

262 PROTAGORAS

anchor our soul thereon, and bid it rest, and
assure us our life s safety. Would they allow,
think you, that, in this case, the art of men
suration would save us, or some other art ?

None other, said he.

Again, if the security of our life depended on
the choice of odd and even numbers, on
choosing, at the proper time, the larger, and
at the proper time the smaller, by compari
son both between themselves and one another,
whether they might be far or whether they
might be near ; what would, in this case, be
357 our life s safeguard ? Would it not be a
science ? and would it not, further, be one of
measurement, since it relates to excess and
defect ? and since it has numbers for its
object, could it be any other than arithmetic ?
To this would our friends assent, or would they
not?

Protagoras agreed with me that they would.

Come then, my friends, I proceeded, since
the security of our life has been found to de
pend on our choice of pleasure and pain being
correct, with reference at once to quantity and
degree and distance, does not our security
appear to you, in the first instance, to consist
in measurement, since it has to consider excess
and defect and respective equality ?

Yes, it must.

And if in measurement, it must, of necessity,
be an art and a science.

Assuredly, they will say.

What art, what science this is, we will in-

PROTAGORAS 263

quire some other time. That it is a science, is
quite sufficient for the explanation which Pro
tagoras and I have to give you of the question
that you asked us. You proposed it, if you
remember, at the time when Protagoras and I
were agreeing that nothing was so powerful as
scientific knowledge ; and that knowledge was
ever dominant, wherever it existed, over both
pleasure and everything else. But you, on the
other hand, said that pleasure was often domi
nant, even over the man that was possessed of
knowledge ; and when we refused to agree
with you, you proceeded to ask : Socrates
and Protagoras, you said, if being vanquished
by pleasure is not this, pray what is it ? what
do you declare it to be ? Tell us. If, then, at
that moment we had answered you, that it was
ignorance, you would have laughed at us ; but
now, if you laugh at us, you will laugh at your
selves as well. For you have yourselves agreed,
that whoever commits error in the choice of
pleasure and pain that is, of good and evil
commits it through defect of knowledge ; and
not only of knowledge, but, as you further
agreed, a knowledge of measurement. Now
all action, that errs for want of knowledge, is
committed, you must yourselves know, through
ignorance. Being vanquished therefore by
pleasure is ignorance, of all ignorance the
greatest. Now of this Protagoras here pro
fesses himself a physician ; and so do Prodicus
and Hippias. But you, because you believe it
to be something else than ignorance, neither go

264 PROTAGORAS

yourselves, nor send your children, to these
sophists to be instructed in this matter, as
though you imagined it could not be taught ;
but, by being chary of your gold, and by refus
ing to bestow it upon these men, succeed badly
in your transactions, both public and private.
358 Such would be the answer we would render to
the crowd. But you, Hippias and Prodicus, I
ask you, in concert with Protagoras, wishing
you to join in our conversation, do you judge
that what I say is true or false ?

They all agreed that nothing was more true.

You admit then, said I, that the pleasant is
good, and the painful evil. But I would enter
a protest against our friend Prodicus s verbal
distinctions. Yes, my very excellent Prodicus,
whether you call it pleasant, or agreeable, or
enjoyable ; whatever be the name, from what
ever quarter derived, which you may be pleased
to give it, restrict yourself to that answer which
I wish to hear.

Prodicus laughed, and said he quite agreed
with me, and so did all the rest.

But what do you say to the following, I con
tinued ? All actions which tend to this, to
living, that is, pleasantly and without pain, are
they not honourable, and, being honourable,
are they not both good and useful ?

They assented.

If then, I added, the pleasant is good, no
man who either knows or believes that other
things are better than that which he is doing,
if they are such things as he can do, proceeds

PROTAGORAS 265

to do the less good, when he might do the
better. Neither is subjection to self aught else
than ignorance ; mastery over self aught else
than wisdom.

They all assented.

But tell me. What is ignorance, according
to you? is it not having a false opinion and
being deceived on matters of great moment ?

Here again there was no dissentient voice.

Is it not true then, said I, that no one enters
willingly into evil, or into that which he con
siders evil ; that it is not, in fact, in the nature of
man to engage with deliberate purpose in what
he believes to be evil instead of in good ; that
no man, when compelled to choose one of two
evils, will choose the greater, when he might
choose the less ?

All these questions met with universal assent.

To the point then, I said. Do you say
that there is such a thing as terror or fear?
Do you understand by it the same as I do ?
To you, Prodicus, I address myself. I under
stand by it a certain expectation of evil, whether
you call it terror or fear.

Protagoras and Hippias were of opinion that
this was the meaning both of terror and fear ;
Prodicus thought it was of terror, but not of
fear.

No matter for that, Prodicus, said I. But
this does matter. If our former conclusions
are true, will any man in the world deliberately
enter into what he fears, when he might enter
into that which he does not fear ? or is it

266 PROTAGORAS

impossible by our previous admissions ? for we
have admitted that, what he fears he believes
to be evil, and what he believes to be evil, he
never engages in or chooses willingly.
359 All agreed to this also.

Prodicus and Hippias, said I, now that we
have established these points, let us call on
Protagoras to defend the answer which he gave
us at first no, not quite at first. At first he
said, that of the parts of virtue, which were
five in number, there was not one like any
other, and that each had a distinct function of
its own. This is not the statement I mean,
but a later one ; for afterwards he said, that
four of these parts bore a reasonably close
resemblance to one another, but that the fifth
was widely different from the rest, this fifth
being courage. And he told me that I should
be convinced of this by the following fact.
Socrates, said he, you will find men of the
greatest impiety, and injustice, and intem
perance, and ignorance most distinguished for
courage. This will show you that courage
differs greatly from the other parts of virtue.
And astonished as I was by this answer at the
moment, it has astonished me still more since
my late investigations with you. However, at
the time I asked him whether by the courageous
he meant the daring. Yes, said he, and men
eager for encounter. Do you remember giving
this answer, Protagoras ?

I do, he replied.

Come then, said I, tell us what it is which,

PROTAGORAS 267

according to you, the courageous are eager to
encounter ? Is it the same as cowards ?

No.

Is it different then ?

Yes.

Do cowards engage in what is safe, brave
men in what is formidable ?

So it is generally said, Socrates.

You are right, said I; but this is not my
question. According to you, what is it which
brave men are eager to encounter ? that which
is formidable, believing it to be formidable, or
that which is not formidable ?

Why the former, Socrates, your late argu
ments have shown to be impossible.

Again you are right, said I. If our reason
ing was correct, no man engages in what he
believes to be formidable, since we found that
want of self-command was want of knowledge.

Granted, said he.

But on the other hand, all men engage in
that which inspires them with confidence,
whether they be cowardly or courageous, and
in this point of view, at any rate, both the one
and the other encounter the same things.

But I can assure you, Socrates, he said, that
no things can be more opposed to each other
than the things which cowards and brave men
encounter. To take the first instance that
comes, the latter are willing to encounter war,
the former are not.

When it is honourable, I asked, to engage in
it, or disgraceful ?

268 PROTAGORAS

When it is honourable, he answered.

And if it is honourable, it is also good by
our former admission ; for we admitted that
all honourable actions were good.

We did, said he ; and I am always of this
opinion.

And very properly too, I rejoined. But
360 which class do you say are not willing to
encounter war, when it is honourable and
good ?

Cowards, he replied.

And if it be honourable and good, it is also
pleasant ?

Certainly, according to our premises.

Do cowards knowingly refuse to engage in
what is honourable, and pleasant, and good ?

No ; for if we allow this, we shall overturn all
our former admissions.

And the courageous man? does not he en
gage in what is honourable, and pleasant, and
good ?

I must allow he does.

In a word then, the courageous men fear no
base fears, when they do fear, nor are they
inspired with base confidences. Is not this
true ?

It is, he answered.

And if not base, are they not honourable ?

Granted.

And if honourable, good ?

Yes.

And are not the cowardly, the foolhardy, and
the phrensied, possessed on the contrary with

PROTAGORAS 269

base fears, and inspired with base con
fidences ?

They are.

And when they dare what is base and
evil, do they dare it in consequence of any
thing else than ignorance and want of under
standing ?

No, he replied.

Again, said I. That which makes cowards
cowardly, do you call it cowardice or courage ?

Cowardice, of course.

And have they not been found to be cowardly
in consequence of their ignorance of that which
is formidable ?

Certainly they have.

It is this ignorance then, it appears, which
makes them cowardly ?

Granted.

And that which makes them cowardly you
have allowed to be cowardice ?

I have, he said.

Ignorance then of that which is formidable
and not formidable proves to be cowardice.

He nodded his head.

Again, said I, is courage opposite to cowardice?

Yes.

Is knowledge of that which is formidable and
not formidable opposite to ignorance of the same ?

Here again he nodded his head.

And ignorance of this is cowardice ?

Though with a very bad grace, he here
nodded again.

Knowledge then of that which is formidable

270 PROTAGORAS

and not formidable is courage, since it is oppo
site to ignorance of the same.

At this he would neither make a sign nor
utter a word.

So I said : How is it, Protagoras, that you
will not say either yes or no to my question ?

Finish by yourself, said he.

Only one more question will I ask you. Do
you still think, as you did formerly, that there
are some men very ignorant, and at the same
time very courageous ?

You seem to stickle, Socrates, for the answer
coming from me. Well, I ll indulge you so
far, and say that by our previous admissions
this appears to me to be impossible.

I can assure you, said I, that I have no
other motive in proposing all these questions
than a wish to observe the relations of virtuous
things, and the nature of virtue itself. For
361 certain am I, that, if this point be once dis
covered, we shall clearly discern that other, on
which both you and I launched out into a long
harangue, I in maintaining that virtue could
not be taught, and you in maintaining that it
could. And I can fancy the upshot of our
conversation attacking and deriding us like a
human being, and that, if it got a voice, it
would say, You are strange persons, both of
you, Socrates and Protagoras. You, Socrates,
who formerly maintained that virtue could not
be taught, are now bent on contradicting your
self, by endeavouring to prove that all things
are knowledge, both justice, and discretion, and

PROTAGORAS 2 ;i

courage ; a course of argument which leads
most clearly to the result that virtue is a thing
which can be taught. For if virtue were some
thing different from knowledge, as Protagoras
has been attempting to maintain, it evidently
would not be susceptible of being taught ; but
now, if it be found to be all knowledge, as you,
Socrates, are insisting, it will be strange indeed
if it cannot be taught. Protagoras, on the
other hand, who started with asserting that he
could teach it, seems now bent on proving, in
contradiction to that assertion, that it is almost
anything rather than knowledge, and conse
quently the last thing in the world to be taught.
I therefore, Protagoras, on observing how
terrible is the confusion in which all these
matters are thrown together, am all-desirous of
bringing them to the light, and should be glad
to follow up our late investigation by inquiring
into the nature of virtue, and then reconsidering
whether or no it is capable of being taught, lest
haply the Epimetheus of your story trip us up
treacherously in our examination, just as in the
distribution of functions he neglected us care
lessly, according to your account. The fore
thought of your Prometheus pleased me far
more than his brother s afterthought ; and it is
because I take Prometheus for my counsellor,
and look forward with his forethought over all
my future life, that I busy myself with all these
studies, and should be delighted, as I said
before, to join you, if you have no objection, in
fathoming them to the bottom.

272 PROTAGORAS

To this Protagoras replied, I for my part,
Socrates, applaud your zeal, and your skill in
the evolution of arguments. For I consider
that in no point of view am I a bad man, and
that I am the last person in the world to be
jealous. Thus often ere now have I said of
you, that among all whom I am in the habit of
meeting, I admire you the most, and among
those of your own age by far the most ; and I
add, that I should not be surprised if you win
yourself a place among our distinguished sages.
And with regard to the present discussion, we
will continue it on some future occasion, when
agreeable to you, but to-day it is high time for
me to betake myself to other business.
362 So be it, said I, since such is your pleasure.
For I too ought long ago to have departed on
the errand I mentioned ; only I stayed to oblige
the beautiful Callias.

Our conversation thus concluded, we left the
house.

THE END

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B Plato

358 Phaedrus, Lysis, and

Protagoras

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